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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


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Broadway and 11th St., New York. 


Health and Vigor for the Brain and Nerves. 

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For 20 years has been a standard remedy with physicians treat- 
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STREET & SMITH’S SELECT SERIES-NO. 7. 

POPULAR AMERICAN COPYRIGHT STORIES. 


Issued Monthly. 

Subscription Price, $2.50 Per Year. 


FEBRUARY, 1888. 


GRATIA’S TRIALS; 


OR, 


MAKING HER OWN WAY. 


BY 



LUCY RANDALL COMFORT, 

Author of “Diamond; or, The California Heiress,” “Vendetta, 1 
“Cecile’s Marriage,” “Twice an Heiress,” etc. 



NEW YORK : 



STREET & SMITH Publishers, 


31 Rose Street, 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1888, 

By Street & Smith, 

In the Office of the Librarian ot Congress, at Washington, D. C. 


GrRATIA’S TRIALS 


CHAPTER I. 

THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS. 

The bland October sun had just dipped behind the misty 
blue of the far-off range of the Catskills ; the sound of the 
river in the valley seemed unwontedly loud and distinct, as it 
mingled with the chirp of crickets and the weird cry of the katy- 
did, and the scarlet woodbine-trailers on the south end of the 
old farm-house shone through the twilight, as if their leaves had 
been dipped in blood. • 

It was a curious brown building, that same farm-house, with 
a high, steep roof, that descended so low as almost to touch the 
top of the door in front, and formed curious architectural 
angles in the rear, while an immense stone chimney rose out of 
its center, and gray plastered squares marked the locality of the 
kitchen fire-place, and the cavern-like oven at its side. Two 
huge clusters of box grew on either side of the door-yard path, 
and the little wooden gate was shaded by a single maple 
tree. 

A tall girl of fifteen stood leaning over the gate, her hair 
blown away from her face by the chill evening wind, her cheeks 
glowing with peach-like color, and her brown eyes almost vailed 
by their white, drooping lids, whose long lashes were just a 
shade darker than her auburn tresses. Her dress, of some 
brown material, was coarse in texture and unattractive in color, 


GRATIA'S TRIALS. 


I 

but she wore a late autumn rose at her throat, and a bow of 
bright ribbon was tied at the left side of her head. She was not 
pretty, any more than the half-opened bud is pretty, but there 
was that in her face and figure which gave promise of extraor- 
dinary beauty in the future. 

This was Gratia Kempfield. 

As she stood there, looking dreamily out, where the orange 
sky was slowly deepening into into wine-red, a little hand pulled 
gently at her skirt, and a tiny voice piped out : 

“Gratia! Sister!” 

“Is it you, Raymond?” and the elder sister put her arm 
caressingly round the five-year-old boy, who had crept out into 
the twilight as noiselessly as the kitten that frisked by his side. 
“I thought you were by the kitchen fire.” 

“So I was, but she came out, with a basin, to make some 
gruel, and she kissed me and patted my head. I don’t like her, 
Gratia ! When is she going away ?” 

“I don’t knotv,” said Gratia, speaking with something of an 
effort. 

“ I want my mamma agjjtin !” pleaded little Raymond, with a 
sob in his throat “ I don’t like Cousin Almira. When will 
mamma be well again, Gratia?” 

The young girl stooped and lifted the child in her arms, while 
she imprinted a kiss on his sunburnt forehead. 

“Dear Raymond, when God pleases. Be a good boy, and 
don’t tease.” 

Gratia put her little brother down on the short, crisp 
grass once more, and, turning silently, went into the house. 

The wide kitchen was all still, save for the noisy chirping of 
crickets under the hearth-stones ; the fire, of great moss-fringed 
logs, blazed drowsily on the iron fire-dogs, and the bed of live 
coals below glowed and deepened like a mass of melted topaz 
and rubies ; but Gratia saw a man’s figure sitting by the table, 
in a chair tipped back against the wall — a man whose face 
would have been pleasant enough, save for a certain weakness 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


5 


in the lower jaw, which seemed to recede under its fringe of 
scanty yellow beard, and an expression of habitual irritability 
in the light-blue eyes. He sat in his shirt-sleeves, cool as was 
the evening, and his heavy cowhide boots bore red traces of the 
soil in which he had been laboring all day long. 

“Where have you been, Gratia?” asked Farmer Kempfield, 
querulously. “The milk isn’t strained yet, and I’ve been call- 
ing you until I’m as hoarse as a crow.” 

“ I thought you paid Cousin Almira for doing such things,” 
said Gratia, biting her lip. 

“ Almira has all she can do, and more too, said Mr. Kemp- 
field, “in waiting on your mother.” 

“Then why doesn’t she let me help her?” 

“’Tain’t your place to ask questions, Gratia,” returned Mr. 
Kempfield, as if he resented the young girl’s words. “Almira’s 
right. I hain’t brought you children up in the fear of the Fifth 
Commandment as I’d ought to ; but you know well enough 
without my tellin’ you, why there don’t nobody but Almira go 
into the south room. It’s for fear of infection.” 

“I am not afraid!” flashed out Gratia. “Oh, father! if 
they would only let me see mamma — just once !” 

“Don’t be unreasonable!” said Ira Kempfield, with the 
sharpness of a shallow nature. “Go and see to the milk ; it’s 
your duty to do all you can to help Cousin Almira.” 

“Father,” said Gratia, still lingering, “why did she send 
Bridget Meara away ? I am not strong enough to lift those 
heavy pails.” 

“Fiddlesticks !” said Mr. Kempfield, moving uneasily in his 
chair. “Almira allows ’twon’t hurt you to work a little like 
other folks’ gals. Bridget Meara was a wasteful creetur’. Al- 
mira says I hain’t no idea how much she saves by doin’ the 
work herself.” 

“By letting me do it, she means!” burst out Gratia. “I 
wish Almira Bassett would mind her own business.” 

“Tut ! tut !” cried Mr. Kempfield. “ I can’t have no such 


6 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


ungrateful talk as that ; Almira does more than half a dozen 
girls.” 

“ She gets well paid for it !” retorted Gratia, bitterly. 

“ Theres some things money can’t pay for,” said the farmer. 

“ She is a sly, disagreeable old maid,” went on Gratia, hotly, 
“ and mamma never liked to have her here, when ” 

She checked herself abruptly, for, chancing to turn her head, 
she saw a short figure close behind her ; and caught the basilisk 
gleam of Miss Almira Bassett’s Chinese-lidded eyes, that looked 
like two gray slits in her face. 

Miss Bassett might have been thirty, or she might have been 
forty. She was one of those well-preserved old maids at whose 
age no one can make an exact guess. She was soft-stepping 
and soft-voiced, with thick lips and a flat nose, and a skin deeply 
pitted with pock-marks, while her thick black hair shone like 
satin on either side of its parting, and she habitually wore a 
black velvet band around her somewhat thick throat, and skirts 
which scarcely rustled as she walked. 

“Gratia, dear,” she said, in a persuasive, oleaginous voice, 
“would you mind getting in a little fresh, cool water from the 
well ? Your poor dear pa is tired to death, and I can’t leave your 
ma — she’s more light-headed than usual to-night, poor thing, or 
I would go myself.” 

“Doe she want it?” asked Gratia. 

“To be sure she does,” said Miss Bassett. “I should not 
have mentioned it for myself \ you may rest assured.” 

Gratia caught up the cedar pail which usually stood on a 
wooden bench by the kitchen door, and scudded away to the 
well, just beyond the garden wall. She came back presently, 
breathless and panting, from the haste which she had made. 

A minute or two afterward, when Almira Bassett’s noiseless 
footsteps glided across the little hall which formed a sort of 
quarantine between the sick-room and the rest of the house, 
Gratia crept after her like a shadow. 

Although it was not yet dark out of doors, a dull light was 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


7 


burning in the sick-room, and Gratia could just see a death- 
white face tossing to and fro in a sea of pillows, and catch the 
low, monotonous sound of a moaning voice. 

“ Mamma !” she cried, catching her breathjwith a quick gasp. 

“Gratia, my child !” 

The gladness of those tones ; the sudden brightening of the 
face ; the hands groping- wildly about, as if for the warm clasp 
of her fingers; Gratia Kempfield never forgot those things while 
she lived. It was but for a second, however, and then Almira 
Bassett, flinging to the ground the cup of vater she carried, 
rushed forward and thrust Gratia by main force out of the room. 

“Child, are you crazy?” she shrieked, her own face nearly as 
white as that of the sick woman. “ Ira Kempfield !” she con- 
tinued, as the astonished farmer came forward in a lumbering 
sort of way, “ I swear to you that if ever this happens again 
I will leave your house within half an hour.” 

“ It’s my mother !” gasped Gratia, struggling to escape from 
Miss Bassett’s wonderfully strong grasp. “Who should be by 
" her bedside, if not I ? I will go to her !” 

Almira’s eyes blazed defiance. 

“ Ira Kempfield,” she panted, “ decide between us. Am/ 
to nurse your wife, or is Gratia?” 

“ I believe the gal is out of her head,” said Farmer Kemp- 
field, beginning gradually to comprehend the exigencies of the 
case. “Gratia, go about your business, and don’t let this ’ere 
be repeated, or I’ll know the reason why. I’m ashamed o’ you, 
arter all Cousin Almira’s kindness. Ask her forgiveness this 
instant.” 

“I will not,” uttered Gratia, in low, husky tones. 

Mr. Kempfield seized his daughter’s arm, as if he would have 
shaken the demanded words out of her firmly set lips ; but Miss 
Bassett interfered, smiling and sweet-voiced a^ain as ever. 

“ Don’t be hard on the child, Cousin Ira. I really shouldn’t 
have spoken quite so sharply myself, only you see it was running 


8 


OB ATI A 8 TRIALS. 


a terrible risk, and I feel myself responsible to you. “You’ll 
kiss and be friends, Gratia, dear, won’t you ?” 

“I do b’lieve you’re the nearest approach to an angel of any 
woman I ever see, Almira,” said Mr. Kempfield, admiringly. 

But Gratia shuddered as the soft, warm, wet lips touched her 
cheek, and her heart cried out : 

“Judas ! Judas !” 


CHAPTER II. 

IN THE SICK-ROOM. 

When Miss Bassett returned from the brief verbal skirmish 
with Gratia Kempfield, in which the latter had been so signally 
vanquished, she found her charge singularly excited and nervous. 

‘SGratia !” faltered the sick woman, turning her hollow eyes 
from side to side, and stretching out her, wasted hands. 
“Gratia, don’t leave me now. Take me away. Don’t let her 
stay here !” 

“Stuff and nonsense !” said Miss Bassett, leisurely drawing 
the bolt across the door, and lowering the window which had 
stood a few incher ajar. “You may just as well stop that 
palaver. Gratia isn’t here, nor she won’t be either.” 

“For one minute, Almira,” moaned the feeble voice. “Let 
me see her for just one minute !” 

Almira Bassett sat down before the fire as unconcerned as if 
no word had been spoken. 

“Almira!” pleaded the faint, hesitating voice. “Almira!” 

“ What T suddenly snarled Miss Bassett, turning round with 
a start. “Can’t I ever have a minute’s peace, for your clatter ? 
Ain’t it enough that my sleep is broken, and my appetite 
spoiled, and my constitution half ruined by your whims, but 
you must keep fret, fret, worry, worry, the whole time ? I tell 
you a saint couldn’t stand it. Lie down and keep quiet, Mary 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


9 


Kempfield, or, as sure as I sit here, I’ll give you something to 
fret for ! Do you hear ? Lie down !” 

Mrs. Kempfield sank down in the bed with a quick, appre- 
hensive movement. 

“But, Almira,” she ventured after a minute or two of 
silence, “ she is my daughter. ” 

“No need to tell me that,” said Almira, shrugging her 
shoulders derisively. “ You’re as like as two peas. I’d just 
like to have the training of her — and I will have it, too, after 
you’re out of the way. Here’s your draught — take it now, and 
let’s have no fiddle-faddling !” 

“It is not time yet — for an hour.” 

“Take it, or I’ll pour it down your throat !” snapped Miss 
Bassett. “It’s my time, anyhow. I’m not going to be waked 
out of a peaceful nap to give it to you, by and by, when the fit 
takes you.” 

Mrs. Kempfield swallowed the nauseous dose in meek sub- 
missiveness. 

“It is bitter — so bitter !” she said, shuddering. “It doesn’t 
taste like the other draughts.” 

“Suppose it doesn’t,” said the old maid, indifferently, “who 
do you suppose is going to be responsible for your capricious- 
ness? It is the same, and that’s enough for you to know.” 

“Can’t I have a little swallow of water?” asked Mrs. Kemp- 
* field. “ It tastes like gall in my throat.” 

“ No, you can’t,” said Almira, who had just established her- 
self in the comfortable arm-chair by the fire, with her feet on a 
footstool. “I’ve sat down, and I shan’t move for any one. I 
guess you’ll keep !” 

As she spoke she reached up to the mantel above for a little 
bottle half full of some dark fluid, labeled “laudanum,” with a 
quick, guilty glance around the room, and deposited it safely 
in the depths of her large pocket. 

Mrs. Kempfield, feebly wringing her thin, emaciated hands, 


10 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


that told of long illness, lay quite silent now. except for the 
occasional low sob that shook her attenuated frame. 

It must have been fully fifteen minutes afterward that a sub- 
dued tap came to the door of the room. Moving like a well- 
conditioned black cat, Miss Bassett answered the summons, 
and beheld a tall, elderly man, in spectacles, and a shabby suit 
of black — a man whose shoulders were bowed, as if with much 
stooping over sick-beds, and whose kindly, near-sighted eves 
had watched the off-flitting of many a ransomed soul in their 
time. 

He looked searchingly down at the pale, sharp face, whose 
yellow-whiteness was so different from the white of the daintily 
bleached pillow-cases, and lifted the slender wrist to feel the 
pulse. 

“Four higher than it ought to be,” said Dr. Moseley, look- 
ing at his big, silver-cased watch. “Anything happened to 
worry her, eh ?” 

“Oh, dear, no, doctor!” exclaimed Miss Bassett, in a tone 
of injured innocence. “ What should-worry her, with me in the 
room ?” 

“Well, I don’t know,” said the doctor, meditatively, feeling 
his chin ; “but I can’t tell how else to account for this sudden 
acceleration of the pulse since morning.” 

He stooped and inhaled the feeble breath. 

“She — she never has been an opium eater?” 

“Oh, dear, no, sir.” 

“There’s no laudanum or paregoric where she could get to 
it ?” 

Miss Bassett winced slightly, but so slightly that no one would 
have observed it, as she answered : 

“Certainly not, doctor.” 

“Miss Bassett,” said the doctor, “this is a very critical case. 
I shall change the treatment. Let her have these powders every 
half hour,” he continued, folding up sundry little mounds of 
gray, ash-like dust in papers. “Waking or sleeping, don’t 


GRATIA 1 8 TRIALS. 


11 


miss the minute. Keep her perfectly quiet ; humor her in 
whatever she wants, and if, by the time I come in to-morrow 
morning, she isn’t better, there will be no use in my coming 
here any more.” 

As the doctor crossed the hall, on his way out, he met Ira 
Kempfield. 

“What do you think to-night, doctor?” asked the farmer, 
wistfully; for he was human, after all, and Mary Kempfield had 
been the cherished wife of his youth. 

“Shall I tell you what I think, or what I hope?” asked Dr. 
Moseley, sadly. 

‘ ‘ What you think, of course. ” 

“Well, then, I give you no hope.” 

“ Doctor 1” 

“I know it’s hard, Kempfield,” said the doctor, with a husky 
sound in his voice. “You remember the old saying, ‘While 
there is life, there is hope/ Think of that, and don’t quite 
despair. ” 

“Can’t I go to her?” wailed the strong man, sinking down 
on a chair, with his hands clasped over his face. 

“ It would hardly be advisable. She seems to know no one, 
and Miss Bassett appears an excellent nurse, though I must say 
I didn’t quite like her face at first.” 

“ She’s the best creatur’ that ever lived 1” burst out Ira. “ I 
don't know how we’d ever ha’ got along without Almira.” 

The doctor went out, softly shutting the door behind him ; 
but their dialogue had had an auditor of whom neither was aware. 
Gratia Kempfield, leaning over the stair-way above, had heard 
it all. 

“ No hope !” she repeated to herself, while her lips seemed to 
grow hard and dry like brass — “no hope! Oh, Father in 
heaven, has it come to that ?” 

Meanwhile, Almira Bassett, rocking to and fro in her arm- 
chair, was sinking into a comfortable dose, from which she was 


vl 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


roused by the clock striking eight and Mrs. Kempfield's voice, 
at one and the same time. 

“ Almira, I am cold; will you spread another blanket over 
me ?” 

“Cold !” echoed Miss Bassett; “and your head and hands 
feeling like fire ! However,' there’s blankets enough. I don’t 
care. ” 

And she tossed a heavy chintz comforter on the bed as she 
spoke. 

“There now! Have you anymore fault to find?” asked 
Miss Bassett, in an injured tone, as she dropped into the fire one 
of the powders the doctor had left. 

As the half-hours went by, Almira Bassett burned the little 
gray powders pne by one, watching them blaze up with a sleepy 
gleam in her black eyes like the light emitted from a panther’s 
eyeballs. 

“Better so,” she murmured to herself; “better so.” 

It was some time after midnight when she rose and went to 
the door to get a stick of wood to replenish the dying fire. As 
she stepped out into the hall, where the wood-box was kept, 
she started back with a smothered cry, for close to the angle 
of the door-way stood a slender figure, all in white, like a 
ghost. 

“ Gratia J” 

For it was Gratia, waiting and listening, with a deadly chill 
at her heart. 

“What on earth are you doing here, child?” demanded 
the old maid. “Go to bed right off, or I’ll call your 
pa.” 

Gratia disdained to answer ; she only turned and glided away. 
But she did not go to bed ; when the gray dawn rose above the 
mountains she was still sitting on the stairs, waiting and listen- 
ing. 


GRATIA S TRIALS. 


13 


CHAPTER III. 

THE QUILTING PARTY SURPRISED. 

The next day dawned clear, soft, and radiant. 

Mrs. Deacon Playfair, who lived in the big yellow house across 
the road, congratulated herself that the weather was so auspicious 
for her quilting bee. 

A quilting bee in the country is synonymous with a “recep- 
tion ” in the city, only more sensible, in that there actually is 
‘ something done besides exchanging hollow compliments, 
and criticising one another’s toilets among the fair guests. 

By two o’clock the preparations were all complete, and the 
long supper-table, spread with snow-white damask and piles of 
napkins, was ready for the last touches. Mrs. Playfair and 
Phoebe Ann, her daughter, had excelled themselves in cake and 
jelly, dulcet creams, and raised biscuit. 

At three o’clock the quilt was finely under weigh, the center 
of a nucleus of thrifty neighbors, whose needles and tongues 
wagged in chorus, and the principal topic of discussson was the 
shadow hanging over the opposite house. 

Mrs. Playfair was seated near the door, which stood wide open 
to admit the yellow flood of the afternoon sunshine, when she 
chanced to look up. A gray shadow crept over her face, the 
features suddenly became drawn and rigid, and she started to 
her feet with a shriek. 

“ Hush I” she cried. “ Look there ! What is that?” 

Mrs. Playfair beheld a sight which turned the blood in her 
veins to a cold tide of terror — Mary Kempfield, death-pale and 
ghastly, standing in the door-way, her hands clasping the side- 
post, as if for support, and her dark hair streaming wildly down 
over her white night-dress. 


14 


GRATIA 8 TRIALS. 


“Merciful father !” cried Mrs. Playfair ; she's dead, and it's 
her ghost !” 

Mary Kempfield turned her wild, hollow eyes to the speaker, 
and seemed to strive for utterance, as the neighbors, rushing 
forward, gathered round to help support her reeling form. 

“What is it, Mary?” cried Mrs. Waring. “What is it you 
have to tell us ?” 

There was a rattle in the dying woman's throat — a husky 
whisper on her lips — but that was all. 

The next instant Gratia Kempfield was kneeling on the floor 
beside her mother, crying out : 

“Mamma! mamma!” 

And Miss Bassett, hot and flushed with the haste she had 
made, ran into the room, mingled terror and defiance in her 
face. 

“What has she said?” she shrieked. “What has she told 
you ?” 


CHAPTER IV. 

AFTER THE FUNERAL. 

Even as Miss Bassett spoke, the seal seemed to be removed 
from the dying woman’s lips. 

“ Gratia !” she uttered. “My children — Gratia !” 

And that was the last word that Mary Kempfield ever spoke. 

While they were lifting the stiff form, Almira Bassett looked 
from one to the other with fierce, hungry eyes. 

“Why don't you tell me what it was?” she said, with her 
hand preesed tight to her fat white throat, as if to repress some 
upsurging emotion. “Of course she was only raving ; you all 
know that she is delirious. Tell me — I am not afraid. You 
know they turn against their best friends when — when the fever 
fit is on ’em.” 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


15 


“Land’s sake!” said Mrs. Howe, “you needn’t to be so 
scairt, Miss Bassett — you heerd all we did.” 

“ Is that all?” said Miss Almira, breathing quick and fast. 
“I didn’t know but that she’d been talkin’ nonsense. Poor 
dear ! I had just stepped into the kitchen to see about a little 
warm water — I couldn’t have been gone two minutes — and 
when I came back the doors were ^all open, and she was gone. 
Mercy, what a start it gave me !” 

And hurrying forward, she bent over the bed where they had 
laid the victim of her cruel treachery. 

“Gratia, don’t get so close to your ma — she can’t catch her 
breath,” she said, reproachfully. 

“ It don’t matter, whispered Mrs. Waring, drawing her gently 
back. “Hush! don’t tell the poor child yet; she’ll never 
breathe again in this world.” 

So ended Mrs. Deacon Playfair’s quilting party. 

The windows were closed in the Kempfield farm-house ; the 
green paper blinds were rigidly drawn down, to exclude all the 
light and sunshine that was practicable ; people came and went 
on tiptoe, especially as they passed the room where the corpse 
lay, all robed in white, with a cluster of tuberoses in its cold 
fingers, and one watcher, sitting tirelessly beside the pillow. 

“What makes you cry so hard, Gratia?” asked Raymond, 
coming in, and stroking her face with his soft palm. “Are 
you going to die, too? Mrs. Playfair says you will.” 

“I wish I could !” moaned Gratia, the hot tears streaming 
down over her little brother’s hands ; “oh, I only wish I could !” 

“And leave me, Gratia?” 

She clasped the child close to her heart. 

“You are right, darling; I had forgotten ; I have you to live 
for yet. If she could speak she would tell me so. Come and 
look at her Raymond.” 

She led the little boy to the coffin. He stood on tiptoe to 
touch the cold temple of his dead mother. 


16 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


“Who is it, Gratia ?” he whispered, clinging to her skirts, 
and looking up with awe-stricken eyes. 

“ Mamma,” she answered. 

“No, it isn’t. Mamma would love me and kiss me. 
Mamma was not as white, and still, and cold. Gratia, what have 
they done with my mamma ?” 

And kneeling there beside the bier of her dead mother, Gratia 
Kempfield tried to explain to her little brother the awful riddle 
and mystery of death. 

Meanwhile Ira Kempfield, sitting at his fireside in a sort of 
enforced idleness, more embarrassed than otherwise by the 
visits of condolence of his friends and neighbors, twirled his 
brown, toil-hardened fingers round and round, and felt dimly 
that some great calamity had overtaken him. He had no care 
or trouble to assume — Miss Bassett took all that upon her own 
shoulders ; he felt her presence was a relief and a blessing. 

“I don’t know what I should ever have done if it hadn’t 
been for her,” he kept saying. “I don’t know what would 
become of me if she wasn’t here now.” 

“Gratia,” said little Raymond, soberly, to his sister, as they 
were coming home, hand in hand, from the dreary village 
church-yard, where the nettles, and burdock, and trailing 
blackberry vines had been cleared away to make a grave for Ira 
Kempfield’s wife, “will they put you and me in big holes in 
the church-yard like that when we die ?” 

“I suppose so, Raymond,” his sister answered, scarcely 
heeding his words. 

“ Then I don’t want ever to die !” 

“Listen, dear, ” said Gratia ; “it is dark and dismal there 
now, but we will make it a beautiful flower garden. We will 
come there every day, and work. We will make her grave fair 
and bright with the autumn blossoms.” 

Thus she spoke, thinking inwardly, “At all events, the 
child shall not learn to have a fear and horror of his mother’s 
grave. ” 


GRATIA* 8 TRIALS. 


17 


Mrs. Deacon Playfair thought it was very odd that Mr. 
Kempfield walked to and from his wife’s grave with Miss 
Almira Bassett, a moving mass of crape and bombazine, upon 
his arm. 

“ He’d ought to have gone with his daughter,” she said, 
shaking her head. “ It looked too forlorn for anything to see 
them two poor children stragglin’ along behind, like lost 
lambs. ” 

But Mrs. Playfair had not observed the maneuver by which 
Miss Almira rustled up to the widower’s side and slipped her 
hand through his arm, in the momentary confusion of leaving 
first the house, and then the grave. 

Ira Kempfield himself had been a little startled by the bold- 
ness of the coup d'etat, but he took it for granted that it was 
all right and proper, or Almira would not have done it. 

Gratia was standing by the window, when the maple leaves 
were slowly drifting down, when Raymond came soberly up 
to her that afternoon. 

“ What are you eating, Ray?” she asked, scarcely thinking 
what she said. “ Have you found some ripe chestnuts ?” 

‘‘No,” said Raymond, with his little round cherry of a 
mouth full of something. “Cousin Almira gave me some 
candies. I picked up a basket of chips for her to kindle the 
fire, and she gave me all these. See !” 

“Give them to me,” said Gratia, contracting her brows, and 
holding out her hands. “You know, Ray, the doctor said 
candies weren’t good for you. ” 

The child jerked himself backward with a quick, impatient 
movement. 

“No !” he ejaculated, stamping one tiny foot. 

“Give them to me this instant!” said Gratia, trying to 
take the obnoxious bonbons from the little fellow by main 
force. He set up a piteous outcry, and Miss Almira came 
in from the kitchen, 


18 


GRATIA S TRIALS. 


“What is it, darling? Who is hurting my little motherless 
lamb '?” 

“No one is hurting him,” said Gratia, doing her best to 
preserve her temper. “ He is eating these colored candies, 
and his stomach is so delicate.” 

“La! is that all?” said Miss Almira. “What nonsense! 
All children eat candy. ” 

“Raymond is not like all children,” said Gratia. “He is 
subject to fits, and the doctor says we must never let him have 
anything of the kind.” 

“They won’t hurt him,” said Miss Bassett. “Do let the 
poor little fellow have them. There, there, Raymond, dear, 
don’t cry — you shall have your candy.” 

“ She is taking his love away from me, too,” Gratia thought. 
“Oh, what shall I do? What have I worth living for? Oh, 
mamma, mamma 1” 

The tears that streamed down her cheeks relieved her in some 
measure ; the cool air against her fevered cheek seemed almost 
like the touch of a tender hand, and suddenly a little voice 
sounded on her ear : 

“Gratia ! sister ! lift up your head ! I don’t care much for 
the candies. I won’t eat any more if you don’t want me to.” 

And Gratia hugged the little nestling form up in her arms, 
feeling that they two were left all alone in the world together. 

“ You mustn’t stay out here in the cold, dear,” she said, 
after a minute or two. 

“Won’t you just go up to the top of the hill with me, 
Gratia?” pleaded the little boy, “to see if there any sweet wild 
grapes on the stone fence by the lane ?” 

“Come, then,” said Gratia, holding out her hand, with a 
smile. 

When they stopped, breathless and ruddy-cheeked, at the top 
of the hill, Raymond looked wistfully up into his sister’s face. 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


19 - 


“Gratia,” said he, “what does it mean to have a new 
mother ?” 

“A new mother 1” 

“Yes. How can we have a new mother? Our mother is 
dead. ” 

“ Of course she is, Raymond. What do you mean ?” 

“I heard Mrs. Playfair whisper it to Miss Pemberton at the 
funeral.” 

“Whisper what, Raymond?” 

“Why, she said I should have a new mother pretty soon. 
How can I, Gratia?” 

Gratia felt a cold chill run through her veins that was not the 
frosty sweep of the evening wind rustling the vine-leaves at her 
side. 

Miss Almira was at the door when the two children returned, 
and through the open portal they could see the cheerful gleam 
of the firelight as it played on the glass and china of the ready- 
spread tea-table. 

“They’ve come at last,” said she to Ira Kempfield, who sat 
inside, staring thoughtfully at the fire. “Gratia, dear, you 
shouldn’t have that child out so late, with his tendency to 
croup.” 

“ It will not hurt him,” said Gratia, shortly. 

“You don’t know that,” said Miss Almira, reproachfully, 
drawing the little boy to the fire. “Mercy, me ! how cold his 
precious hands are ! He shall sit on Cousin Almira’s lap and 
warm them.’ 

Gratia turned away. She could not bear to see Raymond in- 
folded in the caresses of the woman she most disliked of any 
one on earth. But Mr. Kempfield’s gaze rested admiringly on 
the tableau. 

“ I’m sure I don’t know how we shall ever pay you for all 
your kindness to me and the children, Almira,” he said. 


20 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE PROPHECY FULFILLED. 

It was a chilly afternoon in December, with now and then a 
snow-flake floating ominously through the gray quietness of the 
air, and the cattle huddling together under the shelter of a shed 
or thatching, as if apprehensive of coming tempest, when Gratia 
Kempfield sat sewing by the kitchen window. 

“ I am so tired,” she thought — “ oh, so tired !” 

And well might she be. There was no thoughtful mother- 
care now to plan, to anticipate, and to contrive for her — no one 
to watch her lest the young cheek should pale with fatigue, or 
the light figure droop beneath the burdens laid prematurely 
upon it. 

The clock struck four as Mr. Kempfield came in with a huge 
armful of wood which he threw with a crash on the kitchen 
hearth, and Gratia seized the opportunity to broach a subject 
that had long lain very close to her heart. 

“Father,” she began, hesitatingly — “father, may I go to 
school this winter?” 

“What for?” said Mr. Kempfield, gruffly. “Ain’t there 
enough to do at home ?” 

“ Mother always wanted me to have a little more schooling,” 
said Gratia, in a choked voice. 

“You’ve had as much as most gals now,” said her father. 
“You don’t seem to calculate that you’ve got to work for a 
livin’.” 

“Yes, I do, father!” cried Gratia, eagerly, “and that’s the 
very reason I want to go to school a little longer. I would like 
to qualify myself to be a teacher.” 

“ I don’t see as you can be spared,” said Mr. Kempfield, un- 
easily. “Almira needs you to help about the house.” 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 21 

“Is she going to stay here all winter, father?” asked Gratia, 
in despairing accents. 

“Why shouldn’t she?” said Mr. Kempfield, striking the blaz- 
ing log with the poker, so as to send showers of bright sparks 
up the chimney. But he did not look his daughter in the face. 
“And you’ll be wanted to help round.” 

“ But before and after school I could do a great deal, father,” 
urged Gratia. 

“ You’ve just got to be contented as you be,” said Mr. Kemp- 
field. “Almira says you’re old enough to be as much use as 
a woman, if you only had a mind to. And Almira calcu- 
lates ” 

‘ ‘ I don’t want to hear what she says, father, ” said Gratia, bit- 
ing her lips. “ I ask your permission.” 

“ Well, you won’t get it,” said Mr. Kempfield, with asperity. 
“And see here, Gracia, you’ve got to behave different to Al- 
mira Bassett.” 

“ Has she been complaining to you, father ?” 

“N-no ; I’ve got eyes and ears of my own. You don’t treat 
her decent. You’d ought to know that she stands in a mother’s 
place to you, and ” 

But Gratia started up, hot and panting. 

“No, father, not that! Never that! No one ever can stand 
in her place, least of all a mean, meddlesome, intriguing old maid 
like Almira Bassett. I owe her neither love nor respect.” 

Mr. Kempfield dropped his poker, and stood aghast. Then, 
without a word of comment, he uttered a low, long whistle, 
and left the room. 

Gratia Kempfield staid patiently at home the next day, to look 
after the late tea-dinner. Little Raymond was ill and feverish 
— he had overeaten of cake and candy during a visit to the vil- 
lage with Almira Bassett the day previous — and he, too, had to 
be taken care of, so that his sister’s Sunday was by no means a 
day of rest. After dinner she made her usual pilgrimage to her 
mother’s grave with a single pink rosebud, gathered from the 


22 


OH ATI A' 8 TRIALS. 


monthly rose in the kitchen window that had once been her 
mother’s pet and pride. She had not judged it best to take Ray- 
mond with her; but Miss Bassett opined sweetly, that ‘‘a little 
walk would do the darling good — she, for one, didn’t believe in 
overmuch cosseting !” And Raymond was tired and cross, and 
Gratia had to carry him nearly all the way home in her slender 
arms, so that when they reached the farm fence she was heartily 
rejoiced. 

‘ ‘ Who is that coming out of the door ?” she exclaimed. ‘ ‘ An 
old gentleman !” 

“ It’s the minister !” said Raymond. 

“Nonsense!” cried Gratia. “What should the minister be 
coming to our house for on Sunday afternoon ?” 

She quickened her footsteps as she spoke. 

“Yes, it is the minister,” she added. “Perhaps he has come 
to see why we are not more regular in our attendance at church. 
I cannot tell him it is because Almira Bassett makes me stay at 
home and cook the dinner.” 

Old Mr. Vaughan was well out of sight before Gratia entered 
the kitchen. There were no lights yet, but the blazing logs 
gave a sufficient illumination to the room. Mr. Kempfield 
was leaning over his cousin Almira’s chair, holding her hand ; 
Gratia looked from one to the other in astonishment 

“Raymond,” said the farmer, avoiding the reproachful light- 
ning of his daughter’s glance, “come here and kiss your new 
mamma !” 

Raymond stood still in amazement. 

“ Mamma is dead,” he said. “Mamma is in the church- 
yard !” 

“ Yes, darling,” said Almira, sweetly ; but that was 
your old mamma. I am your mother now, you sweet 
precious !” 

“Must I call you mamma?” asked the child, doubt- 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


23 


“Of course you must!” said Mr. Kempfield, author- 
itatively. 

Raymond glanced timidly at his sister, as if her sanction 
were needful to this new state of affairs. 

“Father!” cried Gratia, with a stifling lump rising in her 
throat, and a sudden sensation as if all the blood in her 
pulses were turned to stinging pins and needles, “is this 
true ?” 

“ I was married to her half an hour ago,” said Mr. Kempfield, 
doggedly. 

Gratia looked at Almira, and the slant light of triumph flashed 
from her narrow eyes, in spite of the middle-aged bride’s 
affected meekness. Almira had conquered, and both felt that 
it was so. 

“Why don’t you speak to your mother 1” said Mr. Kemp- 
field. 

“She is not my mother,” said Gratia, huskily. “ My mother 
has not yet been buried three months.” 

Ira Kempfield felt the reproach keenly — it made him 
angry. 

“You shall speak to Almira,” he said, almost savagely, “or 
you are no daughter of mine.” 

My dear Mr. Kempfield,” smoothly interposed the bride, 
“you are so hasty. Remember how sudden this must seem to 
the children. Wait a little, and dear Gratia and I will be the 
best of friends.” 

There was a moment or two of dead silence, and then Mrs. 
Kempfield took Raymond on her lap, and began kissing and 
petting him ostentatiously. 

You’ll love me, darling, won’t you?” she cooed. “ You'll 
call me mother ?” 

“ But you aren’t mother,” said the child. “You are Cousin 
Almira.” 

“Just hear the dear little fellow, Ira,” laughed the bride. 


24 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


“ Isn’t he smart ? Well, sweet, and can’t ‘Cousin Almira' be 
‘ mamma’ too ?” 

“That was what Mrs. Playfair meant,” said Raymond, med- 
itatively, as he sat on his step-mother’s lap, swinging his little 
red-stockinged legs in the glow of the chestnut logs. 

“What, dearie?” 

“ Why, when my first mamma was buried, she said I should 
have a new mother pretty soon.” 

This inopportune speech was followed by another silence, 
and then Mrs. Kempfield put Raymond down, with a little 
affected laugh. 

“Run up stairs, dear, and take off your wet shoes,” she 
said, “and then, Gratia, we’ll have tea. ” 

Miss Almira Bassett had been bad enough about the house, 
but Mrs. Kempfield was ten times worse. Gratia’s frank, honest 
nature never could have conceived beforehand what an amount 
of malicious mischief one woman could do ; and it was all so 
skillfully wrought that Ira Kempfield firmly believed his new 
wife to be an angel through everything. 

Under pretense of teaching Gratia the details of housekeep- 
ing, she made a mere kitchen drudge of her ; under the specious 
vail of firmness and discipline, she treated little Raymond with 
a subtle cruelty that made his sister’s blood boil within her. 

“If it were not for Raymond,” she thought, again and again, 
when most keenly stung with the envenomed darts of her step- 
mother’s malice, “ I would go away, and never look upon her 
face again. ” 

Perhaps — although Gratia did not fully comprehend her step- 
mother’s policy — that might have been precisely what Mrs. 
Kempfield desired. 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


25 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE STEP-MOTHER. 

“ Father !” 

Mr. Kempfield was in the harness-shed, mending a much- 
worn strap, with a bunch of waxed-ends on the bench beside 
him, and the awl between his teeth, when Gratia stood before 
him, her auburn hair blown about by the wind, and her hazel 
eyes sparkling with a vividness that roused his dull senses into 
something akin to amazement. 

“Eh ?” said Mr. Kempfield, dropping the awl, and straight- 
ening himself up. “ What’s amiss now?” 

“She — your wife — is moving little Raymond's things up into 
the east garret chamber. Is he to be turned out of his room 
to suit her whims ?” 

“ It does seem to me, Gratia, that you want to make mis- 
chief,” said Ira Kempfield, feebly. “Your mother needs the 
room for her own things.” 

“Are there not enough other rooms in the house?” indig- 
nantly demanded Gratia. 

“ Yes, but she wants that room ; and Raymond '11 do just as 
well in the garret. I ain’t one that believes in this everlasting 
cosseting and coddling.” 

“ But, father, the roof leaks, and you can see daylight through 
the cracks in the siding.” 

“Well, what then?” said Mr. Kempfield. “When I was a 
boy we lived in a log-cabin, and I slept up chamber with the 
other children, and many a winter’s mornin’ we used to wake 
up with the snow drifted over us from the cracks in the ruff. I 
ain’t any the wuss for it, be I ?” 

“ But Raymond was never strong, father,” pleaded Gratia. 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


26 

“That’s just it,” said Ira Kempfield, complacently. “ Almira 
says he only needs a little toughening off to be just like other 
boys.” 

“Father,” cried Gratia, passionately, “I do believe that 
woman has bewitched you. Have you lost all care and tender- 
ness for mamma’s little sickly boy, the last of the flock ? 
Oh, father, I never could have believed it of you.” 

Ira Kempfield stood momentarily confounded ; but as he 
was slowly opening his lips to reply, his second wife came 
smilingly into the shed. 

“Ira, dear, come to supper,” she said. “I’ve baked a 
pan of waffles, just as you like ’em. And I wish you would 
speak to Raymond; he has been behaving very naughty — 
very naughty indeed.” 

“ I don’t believe it!” cried Gratia, impulsively. 

“That’s so like you, Gratia,” sighed her step-mother, with 
the patient, resigned smile of an ill-treated serf. “You never 
had an idea of discipline. And Raymond is just exactly 
like you.” 

“What’s he been a-doin’ of?” asked the farmer, with his 
eyes fixed admiringly on the serene face of his second wife. 

“ He struck at me, and tried to bite me, and called me 
a nasty, mean thing. Don’t look so vexed, Ira, please; I 
don’t mind it — I would endure a great deal more for your 
sake, dear.” 

“I’ll teach him!” said Ira Kempfield, with a dark-red 
flush coming to his brow; “I’ll learn him he ain’t to ride 
rough-shod over the whole house, the ill-tempered little 
monkey.” 

He strode fiercely away to the house, leaving Gratia and 
her step-mother looking each other in the face. 

Well, young lady, said Mrs. Kempfield, triumphantly, 
for all vail of shallow pretense had long since fallen from 
between them. “I hope this will make you understand that 


GRATIA 8 TRIALS. 


27 


you and your precious little brother aren't going to have your 
own way in everything. ’’ 

“I admire the generosity and magnanimity of the game 
you are playing, madam/' said Gratia, in a voice of stifled 
bitterness. “I only wonder you are not afraid of being 
haunted by the ghost of that poor baby's dead mother." 

Mrs. Kempfield started, and looked uneasily round, as if 
she half expected to see some white spectral shadow hover- 
ing behind her. It was plain that Gracia’s words smote upon 
some vulnerable spot in her armor of arrogance and selfish 
coldness. 

“Hold you tongue, miss 1" she cried, tartly. “I won’t 
take any more of your impudence ! You’re too big to whip, 
more’s the pity, but I’ll have you shut up in the garret for 
a week on bread and water, if you dare to speak to me so 
again. Your father will do it, as quick as wink, if I tell 
him to !” 

Alas 1 Gratia knew that her step-mother’s vaunt was but too 
true ; and without a word, she turned toward the house. As 
she entered the door, the sound of low sobbing met her ears. 

“Where is Raymond, father?" she asked of Mr. Kempfield, 
who sat staring defiantly into the kitchen fire, with his hands on 
his knees. 

“I’ve locked him up in the lumber-room," the farmer an- 
swered. “I ain’t goin’ to have this sort of thing going on 
no longer, and the sooner he understands it, the better for 

him r 

Gratia felt, rather than saw, the malicious lightnings quiver 
in her step-mother’s eyes, as she silently passed her on her way 
up stairs to the lumber-room door, whence proceeded the 
mournful sounds of her little brother’s wailings. 

“Raymond, darling!’’ she whispered, kneeling on the floor, 
with her cheek close against the panels, “don’t cry so hard; 
I’m here— Gratia. Tell me all about it, and don’t sob so 
loud." 


28 


GBATIA’S TRIALS. 


“He beat me/' whimpered Raymond, through his tears; 
“he shook me, and beat me, sister — and I’m to have no sup- 
per r 

Gratia was silent for a moment. 

“What was it all about, Raymond ?” she asked, at length. 

“ I asked her to let me carry up the birds’ nests and stones, 
and things that my own mamma arranged on the shelves for 
me, ’cause I didn’t want her to touch them.” 

“ But you did not tell her that ?” 

“No ; I only asked her to please let me take them up stairs 
in the little covered basket that Phoebe Ann gave me. And she 
caught them all in her apron, and said they were only rubbish, 
and she was going to throw them out of the window.” 

“And then, Raymond?” questioned his sister, breathlessly. 

“I ’most forget, Gratia, I was so mad. But I tried to kick 
her — and I called her names — yes, I did !” owned Raymond, 
with what sounded like some lingering traces of compunction. 

“And you are sorry, Raymond ?” 

“No, I ain't, ” sputtered Raymond; “I ain’t one bit sorry. 
I wish I could have bit her old, ugly face !” 

“Raymond!” Raymond!” remonstrated his 'sister, secretly 
glad that the young rebel could not see the amused look in her 
eyes. 

“I don’t care! She told father, and father beat me. Oh, 
Gratia, my arm is so sore, and my head aches ; and I’m so cold 
and hungry besides !” 


“ Reach up to the top of the big box in the corner, and get 
one of those woolen blankets to wrap yourself in, dear,” said 
Gratia, in a low voice, “and I will see that you have some sup- 
per. ” 

True to her promise, she stole into the buttery while Mrs. 
Kempfield was presiding, with smiles and sweet words, over her 
husband’s supper, and got some bread and butter, a piece of 
apple pie, and two or three seed cakes. These she put in a lit- 
tle basket, and going to the outside, boldly climbed the rotting 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


29 


frame-work of slats which supported a leafless honeysuckle vine 
on the west end of the house, and tapped at the window. 

Little Raymond was cowering, all in a heap, on the middle 
of the floor, his bright eyes shining like a squirrel’s from the 
folds of the blanket that enveloped him. 

He jumped up with an exclamation of delight as he saw his 
sister’s face. 

“Open the window, dear, and reach down,” whispered Gratia. 
“ Here’s your supper. Give me the basket back, and she will 
never know what raven it was that fed my little Elijah.” 

“Oh, sister, couldn’t I climb down that way?” 

“What would be the use, Raymond?” 

“Then we could run away together,” whispered the little boy, 
his breath short and fast, “like the Babes in the Wood, you 
know, sister.” 

Gratia smiled and sighed. 

“The time has not yet come for that, dear,” she answered. 
“But, never fear, Raymond, you and I will break loose from 
this bondage yet.” 

Gratia’s remonstrance to her father had proved of no avail. 
Raymond was despoiled of the little room his mother had fitted 
up for him with such fond maternal pride, and lodged ruth- 
lessly in the bleak garret chamber, where the stars shone down, 
like freezing points of light, through the cracks in the roof, of 
bitter winter nights, and the child lay awake, cowering and 
trembling at the weird sound of loose boards flapping to and 
fro in the siding, as the wind howled drearily round the corner 
of the house. 

One or two nights, moved by his tears and entreaties, Gratia 
stole up to his room in her stocking feet, and carried him down 
to her own bed, where he nestled down beside her like a little 
frightened lamb. 

But Mrs. Kempfield, who always prowled round the house 
long after she was supposed to be in bed, soon discovered this. 


30 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


It was promptly vetoed, and Raymond was left to shiver and 
sob by himself. 

“There ain’t no sense in a great boy, a’most six year old, 
makin’ such a baby of himself!” said Mr. Kempfield, instigated 
to the expression of this opinion by his wife. “And, Gratia, 
you’ve just got to leave off interferin’.” 

But one keen February morning, when Raymond woke up 
with a suffocating sensation in his throat, and gasping for 
breath, Gratia burst through all bonds of policy or filial obedi- 
ence. 

“Raymond ain’t down to breakfast agin,” said Mr. Kemp- 
field, looking frowningly at the empty chair, as he entered. 
“There ain’t no use in his dilly-dallyin’ so. You needn’t save 
him nothin’, Almira.” 

“Gratia has some notion in her head about his being sick,” 
said the step-mother, “but I dare say it’s all make-believe and 
laziness. ” 

Gratia turned from the stove, where she was preparing a 
mustard plaster for her brother’s chest ; her cheek was very 
pale, and her eyes sparkled with scarcely repressed indignation. 

“ He has got the croup,” she said — “that is all.” 

“I don’t believe it,” said Mrs. Kempfield, sharply; but the 
farmer looked alarmed. 

Raymond had been attacked once or twice with this fearful 
and insidious malady in his former wife’s life-time, and he had 
not forgotten the terror of those seasons of vigil and prayer. 

“ He used to have the croup,” said he, glancing, as if apolo- 
getically, at Almira. “ Maybe we’d better have a doctor.” 

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Kempfield, pettishly. “I dare say 
. he may have a bad cold — children are always picking up colds 

and I’ll stew up a little butter and vinegar and molasses to- 
gether when I’ve got through the thick of the work. That’s 
the best thing in the world for a cold. I’ll see to it all, Ira, 
dear — you needn’t worry one particle.” 

And Mr. Kempfield went out to the upland woods where he 


GRATIA' 3 TRIALS. 


31 


was felling trees, thoroughly convinced that little Raymond was 
in the best of hands. 

But as noon approached the child grew worse, and Gratia 
vainly implored his step-mother to allow her to send for one of 
the Playfairs, since she would not listen to the idea of summon- 
ing medical aid. 

“ Nonsense !” cried Mrs. Kempfield ; “you act like a mad 
fool. See — he is better now.” 

Little Raymond, waking from a brief sleep, started and 
shrank at the sound of his step-mother’s voice. 

“Gratia ! Gratia !” he strove to enunciate, vainly trying, by 
thrusting his finger into his mouth, to clear away the fatal ob- 
struction to his speech. “ Don’t let it choke me, sister !” 

Gratia sprang to the opposite window, and, throwing it open, 
called to a little boy on the door-step opposite : 

“Charlie ! Charlie Playfair ! run for the doctor as fast as you 
can, and tell him to come here at oncel Do you hear me? — 
at once!'' 

Then, as Charlie Playfair sped down the road, as fleetly as 
only a boy of twelve, lithe and lean as a fox, can run, she drew 
down the sash and confronted her father’s wife. 

“Woman!” she cried, “if— if this little darling dies, it will 
be because of you. Hush ! do you hear how hard he breathes ? 
Raymond ! Raymond ! look up — speak to me ! Almira Bas- 
sett !” she uttered, in a tone of voice that was almost a shriek, 
“if he dies, I will denounce you as a murderess !” 

The cup Mrs. Kempfield was holding fell to the floor, shat- 
tering into a score of pieces, her lips grew white, and she started 
and glanced round as if Gratia were addressing a crowd behind 
her. One instant she stood silent, panting like an enraged ani- 
mal ; then she spoke in a smothered voice, as if the cords of her 
throat were drawn up by intense passion : 

“ Gratia Kempfield, I swear I’ll be revenged on you for that 
word !” 


32 


GRATIA 1 8 TRIALS. 


“Do your worst !” cried the girl, recklessly. “I fear you 
no longer !” 

“Ah !” hissed Mrs. Kempfield, “but you don’t know yet 
what my worst can and will be. You have called me a — a 
murderess — and I will be revenged !” 

Gracia did not answer her ; she was stooping over the couch, 
where Raymond already seemed better from the effects of the 
simple remedies she had applied. 

The doctor came soon — fortunately he lived at no consider- 
able distance — and before Ira Kempfield came home to supper 
little Raymond was laughing and playing among the nest of 
pillows and blankets his sister had made for him in front of the 
fire. 

“ I told you there was nothing the matter with him,” said 
Mrs. Kempfield, “ only Gratia is so ridiculously fussy.” 

But she took care not to say this in the presence of her step- 
daughter, for Gratia knew, as well as she did, that they had that 
day stood face to face with the grim despoiler, Death. 

And neither of them forgot the looks and tones with which 
Almira Kempfield had sworn to be avenged upon the girl who 
had dared to call her a murderess. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE TWENTY-DOLLAR BILL. 

The winter was nearly over, and little Raymond Kempfield 
had experienced no return of his deadly enemy, the croup. 

Gratia was sitting sewing one afternoon, when the sky with- 
out wore the soft, intense blue of a much later period in the 
season, and the bland air was full of the scents of swelling buds 
and the greening southern slopes, and Raymond knelt on the 
floor at her feet, studying out the pictures in an ancient “ Web- 
ster’s Spelling Book.” He was thinner and paler than he had 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


33 


been in the fall, but the change had been so gradual that Gratia 
scarcely perceived it. Mrs. Kempfield’s persecutions and petty 
tyrannies were as unremitting as ever, but the sister and brother 
bore them together with Spartan valiantness, looking forward 
to some conquering future — what, or when, the poor things 
scarcely knew — that was to deliver them from this galling bond- 
age in due time. 

“Sister, sister I” cried Raymond, jumping up to look out of 
the window, “there comes Joe Johnson down the road.” 

Joe Johnson it was — a gray-haired, erect old peddler, who 
traveled the country through, every spring and fall, with his 
japanned cases of silks, jewelry, and knickknacks, for the benefit 
of the farmer’s wives, daughters, and sisters, who were beyond 
the reach of other than village finery. He uas a good-natured 
old man, popular enough wherever he went, and he never for 
a moment doubted a welcome under any roof which happened 
to shelter him at the moment when the shades of night over- 
took him. 

Mrs. Kempfield bustled in from the back room, and 
stretched her neck to look out of the window over Raymond’s 
head. 

“Sure enough, it’s him,” said she, “and he’s come just in 
the nick of time. My black silk is getting too shabby to be 
decent, and your father promised me a birthday present of a new 
pair of ear-rings.” 

The black silk dress was duly purchased — a cheap, shiny silk, 
which Mrs. Kemfield judged was likely to make the most show 
for the money, and it was not until evening, when Ira himself 
was at home, that the peddler revealed the glories of what he 
called his “ joowalry department.” 

“Now,” quoth he, solemnly wagging his head, “them ear- 
rings is just about what Mrs. Kempfield wants for her style of 
beauty. Gold pendings with a bar of real coral across each, and 
a gold fringe all the way round — they’re elegant — real gems in 
their way.” 


34 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


“Them’s real neat, I declare,” said Ira. “ How much be 
they, Joe?” 

“Them is cheap at twelve dollars,” Joe answered. “I’d 
ask fourteen any where’s else, but I calc’late to get my night’s 
lodgin’ here, and I’ve got some of the Arab notions about over- 
chargin’ folks whose salt I’ve eaten. Call ’em twelve.” 

“I didn’t calc’late to give but eight,” said Ira. “Miss 
Howe’s got a new pair over to Wingley, didn’t cost but eight — 
real big ’uns, with a yaller stun in the center of each, and an 
imitation of a horse-shoe hangin’ down.” 

“Oh, them couldn’t a been real gold at that price, ’’said Joe, 
loftily. “ It’s what they call oreide. No one that ain’t a judge 
o’ joowalry could tell the difference, but / shouldn’t try to put 
off oreide on you nor your lady, Mr. Kempfield. ” 

After some bargaining the ear-rings were finally purchased for 
ten dollars, and Joe Johnson deposited the bills Mr. Kemp- 
field had given him in a plethoric porte-monnaie of faded red 
leather. 

“Pretty well filled, eh?” said Ira, jocosely, glancing at 
it. 

“Wal, not so bad,” chuckled the old man; “but I hain’t 
made so much as usual this trip, so far.” 

“Gratia,” persisted Raymond, who had climbed on a chair to 
survey the splendors of old Joe Johnson’s “jewelry depart- 
ment,” “wouldn’t you like this locket to hang round your 
neck ? Phebe Ann Playfair has got a locket, with some of George 
Liston’s hair in it.” 

Gratia had stopped at that instant to pick up a twenty-dollar 
bill which had fallen from the overcrowded porte-monnaie, and 
as she gave it back to the peddler, she exclaimed, impul- 
sively : 

“I would rather have that bill, Raymond, than all the gold 
lockets in creation.” 

“Eh!” said the old man, good-humoredly; “’tain’t often 
young gals would rather have money than money’s worth.” 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


35 


“I am not like other girls,” Gratia answered, shortly. 

“No, you’re not, more’s the pity!” commented her step- 
mother. 

At nine o’clock, just as those primitive people were beginning 
to think about bed, Mrs. Kempfield came into the room with a 
steaming coffee-pot in her hand. 

“ That smells proper good,” said old Joe, smacking his lips. 

“I thought I’d make some, seein’ it was a cold night, and 
Ira’s partial to coffee,” said Mrs. Kempfield, hospitably. 

“There’s a wife worth havin’,” remarked the peddler, as Mrs. 
Kempfield went back to the buttery for some cups. 

“ There ain’t many like her,” said Ira, in the conscious pride 
of possessing a treasure that Solomon rates “far above rubies.” 

Meanwhile this invaluable gift was softly dropping something 
from the dark vial labeled “Laudanum” into the various cups 
ranged before her.on a small japanned tray. 

“I’ve made the coffee so strong they won't taste it,” she 
thought, “and I mean every one in the house shall sleep sound 
to-night, except me.” 

As she poured out the hot, fragrant beverage, and passed it 
around, Ira noticed that she had provided no cup for herself. 

“Ain’t you goin’ to take none, Almiry ?” he asked, solicit- 
ously. 

“I guess not to-night,” his wife answered. “ I’ve got some- 
thing of a headache, and coffee generally keeps me awake at 
night.” 

“ Well, it does me, too,” said Joe Johnson, pouring his coffee 
into the saucer, and drinking it with evident relish ; “but this 
’ere smelt so good it warn’t in human natur’ to say ‘no’ when 
you brought it round.” 

It happened, rather curiously, that the coffee did not keep 
Joe Johnson awake that night. He slept like a man under the 
dominion of some heavy trance, so soundly that he did not hear 
the rustle of garments through his room, nor feel the velvety 
touch of fingers tampering with the purse that always lay under- 


36 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


neath his pillow. Gratia, too, slept a heavy, unresting sleep, 
all unconscious, poor girl, that it was her last peaceful slumber 
beneath her father’s roof-tree. 

Joe Johnson was on his way, the next morning, bright and 
early ; but when the Kempfield family were sitting down to their 
midday meal of boiled pork and cabbage, with baked potatoes 
and a boiled Indian pudding, yellow and steaming from its bag, 
they were surprised — some members of it, at least — to see the 
old man’s face re-appearing on their threshold with a perplexed, 
frightened look. 

“Just in time for dinner, Mr. Johnson,” said Almira, smil- 
ingly, jumping up for an additional plate, although the surprise 
had brought a deep color to her cheek, and evidently startled 
her nerves somewhat. “Sit down, and take a bite with us, 
won’t you ?” 

“ You hain’t forgot nothin’, have you, Joe?” said Mr. Kemp- 
field, with a choice wedge of pork uplifted on the end of his 
two-tined fork, midway to his mouth. 

“I don’t fairly know whether 1 have or not,” said the peddler, 
sitting down and wiping his heated brow with a spotted silk 
pocket-handkerchief. “That twenty-dollar bill I had here last 
night — it dropped on the floor, you remember, and Gracia, 
there, picked it up.” 

“Yes, I remember,” said Mr. Kempfield. 

“Well, I can’t find it nowheres !” 

“You don’t say so!” said Ira, bolting the piece of pork, and 
dropping both knife and fork. 

“I know it was in my pocket-book last night, for I counted 
all my money over in my room the last thing before I went to 
bed, and I never opened it agin till I got to Squire Martin’s, 
and then it warn’t there. ” 

“Maybe it’s in your room, lyin’ about somewhere,” sug- 
gested Ira. 

“ I don’t see how it could be,” said Joe, “for I remember 
puttin’ it away in the inside flap, and bucklin’ it with the little 


GRATIA 8 TRIALS. 


37 


red strap that slips over ; but there ain’t no harm in lookin’. 
You haint swep’ up, nor nothin’, have you, ma’am ?” he added, 
with a glance toward Mrs. Kempfield. “I’d know the bill 
anywhere, for I’d drawed a cross in red ink at the back on’t. 
That’s what I do with all my big bills.” 

“Well, no, I haven’t, by sheer good luck,” said she. “I 
don’t know that a soul has been in the room since you left it. 
I was calculating to whitewash and do the spring cleaning there 
to-morrow, so I haven’t even made the bed. ” 

“All the better for me,” said the peddler. 

And the whole family proceeded up to assist in the search, 
with the exception of Gratia, who remained at the table below, 
quietly finishing her dinner. 

But no amount of search could produce a missing treasure 
which most assuredly was not there, and presently Joe Johnson 
desisted in despair. 

“ Well, I do declare 1” he ejaculated again, scrubbing at his 
wet forehead. “It’s enough to make a feller believe in witch- 
craft. The bill hadn’t legs, and it couldn’t run away.” 

“ No, but other people’s legs might have run away with it,” 
said Mrs. Kempfield, in a voice purposely lowered. 

“Eh?” said the peddler. 

“ I’m blamed if I don’t believe Almira’s got an idee !” said 
Ira, admiringly. 

“Iam not one that likes to suggest, or even believe, evil of 
anyone else,” began Mrs. Kempfield, with well-dissembled re- 
luctance, “ but you all heard what Gratia said last night.” 

“Gratia !” echoed the farmer. 

“Gratia !” uttered old Joe Johnson, in the same breath, and 
then there was a second or two of silence, in which you could 
have heard a pin drop. 

“ You— you don’t think she took it?” said Joe, hesitatingly, 
and then Ira Kempfield swore a deep oath. 

“Man, take care what you are saying!” he thundered. 


38 


on ATI A' 8 TRIALS. 


“ My girl may have her faults — I dare say she has — but she ain’t 
no thief 1” 

Joe shrank into a corner before the farmer’s blazing eyes, but 
Mrs. Kempfield threw herself artfully into the breach. 

“ Dear Ira, don’t be rash, ” she purred. “Only you know 
Gratia did express a strong wish for just that sum of money — 
and since it has disappeared so unaccountably, there can be no 
harm in just looking into her room. Only to satisfy ourselves, 
you know, and she need never know of it. Girls will do strange 
things sometimes, and you know, dear, Gratia is the strangest 
girl!” 

“ Search her room at once,” said Ira, huskily. “She’s my 
daughter, and she sha’n’t lie for a minute under no unjust sus- 
picion. I insist on havin’ an out-and-out search made this 
minute, if it’s only in justice to her.” 

“I hain’t made no accusation,” began the peddler, but ” 

“I don’t care whether you have or not,” roared Ira Kemp- 
field. “Almira, come. I’ll have my gal’s name cleared at 
once from the very shadow of a doubt.” 

“The three hurried at once to Gratia’s neat little room, 
just across the entry, and Ira tossed and tumbled everything 
about, with Joe Johnson standing at his side. 

“There !” he cried, with an accent of triumph, “I told you 
so. We’ve looked everywhere.” 

As he spoke he opened the washstand drawer, where Gratia 
kept a little box containing a string of old gold beads which 
had belonged to her mother, a blue glass brooch, and one or 
two other comparatively valueless trinkets. He tumbled out 
the contents, and there, tightly folded, and laid in the very bot- 
tom of the box, so that it still adhered after the other things 
were out, lay the twenty-dollar bill, with the cross of red ink 
flaming up in full view. 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


39 


CHAPTER VIII. 

GRATIA CHOOSES FOR HERSELF. 

For a second or so there was a hush upon the three occupants 
of the room, and then Mrs. Kempfield exclaimed : 

“Didn’t I tell you so!” 

“Wal!” cried Joe Johnson, slapping one hand upon his 
thigh, “I wouldn’t a-believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. 
And she such a pretty, innocent-faced creatur, too — wal, wal, 
there ain’t no accountin’ for some things !” 

Kempfield himself had stood silent, staring on the folded bill, 
as if it were some venomous asp, coiled up and about to sting 
him. Then he strode to the door, and called out, in the deep 
tone of suppressed rage : 

“ Gratia !” 

“Well, father?” 

The girl came lightly up the stairs, but stopped in surprise 
on seeing that they were in her room, instead of, as she sup- 
posed, searching that the peddler had occupied on the previous 
night. 

“What possessed you to do this thing, girl ?” savagely de- 
manded Ira Kempfield. 

“What thing, father?” asked Gratia, looking at him, thor- 
oughly bewildered. “What has happened? What are you all 
doing here ?” 

“Don’t trifle with me !” almost shouted her father. “ You 
are a thief! You have stolen this money, and you have dared 
to face it out by falsehood. ” 

“ Father, what do you mean ?” cried Gratia, pushing the hair 
back from her brow, and looking at him in surprise. “ I have 
touched no money.” 

“ Then how came it here ?” 


40 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


He held up the little box with the red-crossed bill still lying 
wedged at its bottom. 

Gratia, feeling as people sometimes feel in the bondage of a 
hideous dream, beheld this silent witness to her guilt. From 
thence she looked first at the faces of her father and the old 
peddler — then at that of Almira. Mrs. Kempfield was stand- 
ing with the corners of her mouth demurely drawn down, and 
a look of hypocritical regret upon her face, but Gratia could 
see the glitter of malicious triumph beneath her scanty black 
eyelashes, and in an instant she comprehended it all. 

“This is your doing !” she cried out to her step-mother. 

But Ira Kempfield grasped her arm as if in a vise of iron. 

“Hold your tongue, girl !” he thundered. “How dare 
you speak so to one who has been only too good and consider- 
ate of you ! HI shake the teeth out of your head if you ven- 
ture to breathe another such word !” 

“ Hush, dear 1” said Mrs. Kempfield, laying a soothing hand 
on her husband’s wrist ; “never mind me — I’m used to Gratia’s 
ingratitude. Only I am sorry that your daughter should be 
proved a thief. I’ve tried to hide her faults in the best way I 
could, but ” 

“A — thief 1” slowly repeated Ira, still retaining a grasp of his 
daughter’s arm that made her shudder and turn pale with pain. 
“Yes — that’s the word. That’s exactly what she is 1” 

“Father!” 

He pushed her violently from him. 

“ I ain’t an angel like Almira !” he exclaimed. “ I ain’t one 
that finds new names for ugly things, and it kind o’ breaks me 
down to know that my gal is a common thief, and a liar besides. 
My home ain’t no place for such as her l” 

“Sho, sho !” cried the old peddler, in genuine astonishment 
and distress. “You wouldn’t turn your own flesh and blood 
out of doors, Ira Kempfield ?” 

And the step-mother interposed with a show of sympathy and 
gentleness. 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


41 


“ Ira ! Ira ! just think what you’re saying, dear.” 

Gratia turned quickly to her. 

‘‘I do not want your intercession, Almira Bassett!” she 
uttered. “Be silent!” 

“Well, I declare !” said old Johnson, “if that ’are ain’t what 
I call downright ingratitood ! The gal don’t know her friends 
when she sees ’em !” 

“Yes, Ido, Mr. Johnson,” said Gratia, trying to calm her 
quivering voice, “and that woman is not among the number. 
She is doing her best to ruin me, and she may succeed, but 
she will not blind me by her arts and pretenses. ” 

Mrs. Kempfield’s eyes flashed vindictively, but her soft tones 
never varied as she responded : 

“ You’ll be sorry for what you are saying yet, Gratia. But 
I’ll not lay it up against you.” 

“There, there!” said Joe Johnson, good-naturedly. “I 
swow, I’m most as sorry as if I hadn’t found the bill. But 
Gratia’s young, and everybody knows one swallow doesn’t make 
a summer. Let’s all keep our own counsel about this ’ere, and 
nobody’ll be none the wiser. I dare say it’ll be a lesson to the 
gal, and ” 

“Stop, Mr. Johnson!” resolutely interposed Gratia. “I 
swear to you that I am as ignorant of how that bill came into 
my possession as the tiniest babe that breathes on God’s earth 
this day. And if I lay on my dying-bed I would still say the 
same.” 

Joe Johnson sorrowfully shook his grizzled head. 

“I’d believe you if I could, Gratia,” he said, “but the facts 
speak out too plain. And you’d best remember that there 
never was a fault patched over yet by lyin’ about it.” 

For the rest of that week Gratia Kempfield’s position in the 
household was that of an ostracized person. Both Mr. Kemp- 
field and her step-mother avoided her as if she had a sort 
of moral plague-spot upon her; and when necessity com- 
pelled them to come in contact with her, they spoke as little as 


42 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


possible. And from the looks and tones of the neighbors whom 
she occasionally saw, she could not but gather that they too 
were in possession of the story her step-mother had seen fit to 
spread abroad. 

Things had gone on thus for some days, and Gratia, after 
much thought and deliberation, had finally arrived at the con. 
elusion to ask her father to send her somewhere to school 
where she could complete her somewhat neglected education 
in a manner to enable her to earn her own living as a teacher 
when she should be a year or two older. 

But one evening when her father had returned from the 
neighboring village later than usual, and her step-mother was 
away taking tea with Miss Pemberton, she resolved to make a 
bold push in her own behalf. 

“ Father/' she began, hesitatingly, as she set the teapot on 
the table and took her seat opposite him, with a newly lighted 
tallow candle flickering between them. But he interrupted her 
before she could proceed further. 

“Gratia,’' he said, abruptly, “I want you to pack up your 
things this evening. You are going to Packenbridge, where 
your mother ” — Gratia winced as he spoke the word, and it did 
not sweeten his mood to observe it — “has a cousin who runs a 
shirt-factory. He employs twenty or thirty hands and you’ll be 
useful to sweep up shop and make fires, and oil the machines, 
and do such like odd-jobs till you’ve learned the trade !” 

“Father,” she remonstrated, “father do not send me there ! 
Mother always wanted me to be a teacher, and I think I could 
prepare myself in a little while if ” 

“ Oh, pshaw !” said Mr. Kempfield. “ I hain’t neither time 
nor money to spend on any such topping notions. Almira says 
you hain't no faculty to teach ” 

“Mamma thought otherwise,” interrupted Gratia, her cheeks 
crimsoning, “and mamma ought to know, for she taught school 
herself once. ” 

“ Yes, yes ; I dare say,” said Kempfield, evading, as he always 


GRATIA 8 TRIALS. 


43 


did, the mention of his dead wife's name; “but things are 
changed now." 

“They are indeed !” cried Gratia, passionately. “ Oh, father, 
father ! I am sometimes tempted to believe in the old-world 
stories of witchcraft when I see how Almira Bassett has 
turned your heart away from us — from Raymond and me." 

Ira Kempfield rose from his chair, muttering a suppressed oath 
between his teeth. 

“Look here, gal," he said. “I don't mean to stand this 
sort of thing any longer. It's just as Almire says — you’re a fire- 
brand in the house, and there’ll never be peace in it as long as 
you stay. Do as I say, and put your things together, for to- 
morrow mornin’ you start for Packenbridge, to go into Milo 
Bassett's shirt factory. Raymond would be a tolerably decent 
child if once he was out o' your influence, and I mean to give 
him a chance." 

Mrs. Kempfield came smiling and simpering home at nine 
o'clock, and Gratia said nothing to her of- the conversation that 
had taken place between her father and herself. She did not 
mean to go to Packenbridge — upon that question she had fully 
made up her mind. A plan which she had often thought of as 
possible, in some unforeseen emergency, now presented itself 
definitely to her mind, as the only course to be taken, and it 
was this : 

Mrs. Homer — a woman who made wax flowers — had been 
used, in the reign of the first Mrs. Kempfield, to make long 
visitations at the old Kempfield farm-honse, and the only quid 
pro quo which she ever proffered for board and lodging was 
an oft-repeated invitation for Gratia and Mrs. Kempfield to 
“come and visit her in New York. Make it your home with 
me, if ever you come,” she had said, with that silver-plating of 
manner that passes among so many undiscriminating souls for 
the genuine metal, and Gratia had unhesitatingly believed in 
Mrs. Homer. 

“I will go to New York," she thought, “and she will give 


44 


GRATIA S TRIALS. 


me a kindly welcome, until I can at least find something to do. 

I will work hard, and make a home for dear little Raymond, 
and then I will come after him, and we will be so happy to- 
gether. ” 

She had no resources, save about five dollars that had been 
given to her by her mother for some fancied necessity just be- 
fore her death, and which she had never since had the heart to 
spend. Besides this, there were the old gold beads, which were 
of some intrinsic value, and a quarter-eagle in gold that she had 
possessed ever since she was a child. 

She did pack up her things that night, but it was different 
from what Mr. Kempfield expected. Instead of filling the painted 
pine box, that constituted her only trunk, with the various de- 
tails of her simple wardrobe, she took only such articles as were 
absolutely necessary, and rolled them into a compact bundle. 
She dressed herself in a plain black alpaca dress which had 
been part of her unpretending mourning, tied on a black felt 
hat, and wrapped a dyed shawl about her. It was all coarse, 
plain, and old fashioned, for Almira Kempfield had persuaded 
her husband that it was unnecessary to buy any new articles of 
dress for “a mere child like Gratia ” since her mother’s 
death. 

Gliding softly, like a shadow, across the hall, she lifted the 
latch of the garret stair-way, and went up to little Raymond’s 
room. 

“Poor little Raymond,” she murmured to herself. “But I 
must be patient ; it will be but for a little while.” 

The child woke with a start, as she laid her cool hand softly 
on his forehead. 

“Hush, dear!” she whispered. “Don’t be startled, Ray- 
mond. I have come to tell you good-by.” 

He threw his arms about her, clinging to her with a convul- 
sive shivering, which was partly terror and alarm, and partly the 
chill of insufficient clothing in the raw air of the early morning. 

“Where are you going, Gratia?” 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


45 


“I can hardly tell you, Raymond ; I do not quite know my- 
self. Somewhere to escape from this hideous life — somewhere, 
away from her” 

“Oh, take me, too, Gratia !” sobbed the little fellow. 
“There'll be no one to love me if you are gone." 

How she wished that it had been in her power to consent to 
his prayer ; how bitterly the iron of her desolate condition en- 
tered into her soul at that moment. 

“Some day I will take you, Raymond," she answered, trying 
to speak encouragingly. “ Be brave and don’t give up. I am 
going to try and make a home for us both, where we can live 
together always, you and I." 

“Good-by, sister! You’re sure it won’t be long — ’cause I 
shall be so lonesome !" 

“ Only a little while, dear. I won’t tell you where I am go- 
ing, because I want you to speak the truth when they ask you 
— to be able to say that you don’t know. But I shall come 
back one of these day, and take you with me." 

He felt her kiss upon his forehead, and the next minute he 
was alone. 


CHAPTER IX. 

OUT INTO THE WORLD. 

As Gratia Kempfield let herself out at the kitchen door and 
hurried across the lonely fields, the dreary darkness of the hour 
before dawn was just beginning to be dappled by the coming 
glow of sunrise. The sweet air from the ravines and hollows 
greeted her with delicious breath ; the clear whistle of birds, 
just rousing to the new life of the spring day, sounded in her 
ear like the cheery voice of friends. 

A walk of four miles lay before her ere she could reach the 
depot, where a train bound for the distant city stopped at a 


46 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


quarter before six. There were a few waiting passengers loung- 
ing around the little wooden platform, talking idly about chance 
matters, glancing at their watches, orjistening for the distant 
whistle of the coming train. 

It came at last, sweeping round the curve of the woods, and 
in another moment Gratia was being whirled along with a speed 
that seemed to her almost fabulous. 

She had Mrs. Homer’s address, written in pencil on a slip of 
paper, and thither she was determined to bend her steps the first 
thing. 

She addressed the nearest policeman, asking for the informa- 
tion she required. 

He told her, civilly enough, and even placed her in a car tell- 
ing the conductor where to stop. 

“No. — Seventh avenue! here you are!” bawled the con- 
ductor presently, and Gratia alighted. 

It was no pleasant little house, standing by itself, as Gratia 
fancied it might be, but one of a block of tall, cheap-looking, 
stucco-fronted houses, with a large fancy store bearing the num- 
ber. Into this store Gratia went, and humbly inquired for Mrs. 
Homer. 

“ Homer?— Homer ?” repeated the young lady in cheap silk 
and imitation jewelry, who stood behind the counter. “I don’t 
know no such name.” 

“Perhaps it’s the woman that lives up on the third story,” 
said. another, who was sorting different colored skeins of silk for 
embroidery. 

Acting upon this suggestion, Gratia ascended the stairs, and 
on the third floor her heart gave a bound of joy as, in the face 
of the person who opened the second door at which she knocked, 
she beheld the familiar lineaments of Mrs. Homer. 

Dear me ! said that lady, after a minute’s unrecognizing 
stare, “ it s Gratia, ain’t it ? — the farmer’s girl, up among the 
mountains?” 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


47 


“Yes, it is I, Mrs. Homer," said Gratia. “May I come 
in? I'm very tired, and have had no breakfast." 

Mrs. Homer was a tall, uncompromising looking female, 
with pale blue eyes, scanty fringes of curls hanging down on 
each side of her face, and lips so thin as to resemble a mere 
gathering thread in her face. 

“Yes, you may come in," said Mrs. Homer, rather coldly. 
“ k Sit down. I haven't a thing in the house to eat, but I sup- 
pose I can send out for a few rolls or something. How is your 
mother ?” 

“My mother is dead," said Gratia, with a quivering lip. 

“Dear me ! you don't tell me so ! Well, she always was 
sickly looking, and we’ve all got to die.” 

“And," pursued Gratia, beginning to weep, “my father has 
married again, and I am very unhappy, and — and I’ve left 
home.” 

“There, don’t cry, for pity’s sake !" said Mrs. Homer. “I 
hate a scene. I never was one of the crying sort myself, and I 
don’t like to see it in others." 

All this time she had not asked Gratia to remove her things, 
but stood before her, as if expecting that her stay would be of 
the shortest. 

“And as for your father marrying again:" she added, after a 
moment or two of cold silence, “I dare say it was the best 
thing he could do." 

“ But do you know the woman he has chosen ?" gasped Gra- 
tia, the sickly chill of disappointment beginning to steal over 
her heart. “ I would sooner die than endure her tyranny." 

“Humph!" commented Mrs. Homer. “It’s easy to talk 
of dying. And what do you calculate you are going to do ?" 

“Mrs. Homer," began Gratia, with some spirit, “you have 
found a home at our house for weeks at a time, and you have 
frequently invited us to return your visits. I thought you would 
let me stay with you for a little while until " 

“ As for that," broke in Mrs. Homer’s hard, measured tones, 


48 


GRATIA S TRIALS. 


contrasting strangely with the wild, impulsive thrill of Gratia’s 
soft voice, “I always paid my way. I made a bunch o’ wax 
flowers for your ma s center-table, worth twenty-five dollars at 
the very least, and I gave you an elegant black silk gown, that 
hadn’t been in wear over five years. I don’t consider myself 
anybody’s debtor.” 

Forlorn and miserable as she was, Gratia could scarely for- 
bear from smiling, as she remembered the tuft of damaged wax 
flowers so graciously bestowed on Mrs. Kempfield by her visitor, 
after their shade had been overturned and broken, and the bou- 
quet itself too hopelessly bent and crushed to be of any market- 
able value ; and the dyed silk gown, worn threadbare, and cut 
in the gathers, which not even Mrs. Kempfield’s ingenuity could 
make into a useful garment. 

“I should not want to stay long,” said Gratia, meekly; 

‘ ‘only till I get a situation.” 

“Humph!” said Mrs. Homer, dryly. “Situations don’t 
grow, like blackberries, on every bush. Now you’re beginning 
to cry again — dear me !” 

“No,” said Gratia, courageously, wiping away the tears. 
“ Do not be afraid, Mrs. Homer ; I shall not make what you 
call a scene. Only I am so faint and weary ! If I could lie 
down on the sofa a little while ” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Homer; “and here comes Frances with 
the rolls. You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten a bit.” 

Mrs. Homer’s niece, a tall, forbidding girl, with sandy hair 
frizzed, and curled, and chignoned to an extreme that seemed 
simply ludicrous in Gratia’s country eyes, had brought in three 
small French rolls, wrapped in paper, and a tiny wedge of 
cheese, and with this insufficient meal Gratia was forced to be 
content. 

The room was shabbily and scantily furnished, the window- 
panes were clouded with dirt, and the tawdry gilt cornices laden 
with dust. There was but a morsel of fire in the rusty grate, 


GRATIA 8 TRIALS. 


49 


although the air was full of spring chilliness, and the room 
smelt close and confined as a vault. 

“Couldn’t I learn your business, Mrs. Homer?” said Gratia. 

“You could learn it, I suppose,” said Mrs. Homer, “but 
you couldn’t live on it.” 

“Why not?” 

“Business is overcrowded a’ready,” was the brief reply. 

“But don’t you know of anything else that I could do?” 
asked Gratia, after a short pause. 

“Miss Perry might know of something,” suggested Frances 
to her aunt. “ Miss Perry, in the fancy store belo\V stairs, you 
know. There’s lots of people come to her to inquire for help 
in one business and another. Wouldn’t it be worth while to 
go down and ask ?” 

“Well — I don’t care if you do,” she hesitated. “You go 
with her, Gratia. I can make up this sprig better if I’m 
alone.” 

Miss Perry, the proprietress of the lace, ribbon, and French 
gilt jewelry depot down stairs, was a fat, gaudily dressed old 
maid, with spectacles and false teeth. 

“A situation, eh?” said Miss Perry, aloud, in answer to 
Frances Homer’s whispered communication. “Any refer- 
ence ?” 

“ Oh, she’s never lived out. She is just from the country,” 
said Frances. 

“ Can you sew ?” 

1 1 1 can sew neatly, but not fast. ” 

“ Know anything of housework ?” 

“Oh, yes,” Gratia answered, brightly. “ T have been 
brought up to work, and I can do a little of anything.” 

Miss Perry opened a drawer, and shuffled through its con- 
tents until she succeeded in unearthing a fat memorandum- 
book, which she opened, referring to a list of addresses on the 
last page. 

“ I suppose, as you haven’t any recommend, and are a green 


50 


GRATIA 8 TRIALS. 


hand, you’ll not expect high wages ?” she asked, beginning to 
unscrew a silver pencil-case. 

“Certainly not, ma’am,” said Gratia, humbly. 

“There’s Mrs. Moultrie wants a girl to assist in the chamber- 
work and take care of children,” said Miss Perry. 

“Oh, I should like that,” said Gratia ; “I am fond of chil- 
dren. ” 

“/ain’t, then,” said Miss Perry. “You might suit Mrs. 
Moultrie. Mind, I don’t say for certain you would — but you 
might. There’s no harm in trying, at all events.” 

“ I suppose she’d better go at once,” said Frances, after they 
had come back up stairs. 

“Oh, of course,” said Mrs. Homer. “And of course you’ll 
have to go with her to show her the way — that’s the bother of 
these country people. And, Gratia, see here — you must try 
and suit in this new place, for I may as well tell you first as 
last, I can’t keep a free hotel for every stranger that comes 
along. ” 

Gratia inclined her head, but she could not resist the tempta- 
tion of flashing back a quick retort. 

“We extended a different welcome to you, Mr. Homer, 
when you staid with us for a month at a time.” 

“Oh, I dare say,” said the inhospitable matron, rather un- 
easily. “But, you see, the cases aren’t at all alike. People 
in the country have nothing to do but to entertain com- 
pany. ” 

Frances Homer, evidently glad of any reasonable excuse to 
get out into the fresh air, walked with Gratia to Lexington ave- 
nue, where Mrs. Corkson Moultrie lived. Gratia glanced at 
the plate-glass windows, lined with the rosy folds of silken cur- 
tains and the fleecy fall of lace, with a sort of awe. 

“ It looks like a palace,” she faltered. “Oh, Miss Homer, 
I am almost afraid to try.” 

“Pshaw !” said Frances. “Faint heart never won fair lady, 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


51 


and I dare say you’ll suit. I almost wish I was going to live 
out myself, Aunt Homer is so trying. ” 

With difficulty Gratia summoned sufficient nerve to pull the 
door-bell, and her heart throbbed violently as answering foot- 
steps resounded along the marble-paved floor of the hall 
beyond. 

As the broad doors swung noiselessly inward on their silver- 
plated hinges, Gratia found herself confronting a smart maid, 
with a flounced alpaca dress, and pink ribbons in her hair. 

“What do you want?” sharply demanded this personage. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE MATERNAL HOME. 

“I came to see Mrs. Moultrie. Miss Perry sent me,” faltered 
Gratia. 

“My missis can’t be disturbed now,” said the maid, with a 
toss of her pink-ribboned head ; “she’s got company.” 

“Then I will wait,” said Gratia, with a resolution which had 
its origin in simple desperation. 

Presently two ladies, richly dressed, came out of an inner 
apartment, and a tall, portly personage, with blue eyes, an ex- 
quisitely fair complexion, and a quantity of lustrous, pale 
brown hair, accompanied them as far as the threshold. 

Her dress was of bright blue silk, and she wore a blue velvet 
house basque, trimmed with swan’s-down, rosetted slippers, and 
rich jewels, that made a jingling sound as she walked ; and, 
moreover, Gratia had plenty of time to observe all these details. 
She had a soft, gracious manner, and lisped slightly in her 
speech. 

“Then you may expect them next week,” said the taller of 
the two ladies. 


52 


GBATIA’S TRIALS. 


“ I shall count the days,” said Mrs. Moultrie. “ Dear little 
things ; but you know I am so foolishly fond of children.” 

And she smiled and nodded them from her presence. 

“ Now, what is it?” she said, abruptly, turning to Gratia the 
instant the door closed behind her retreating guests, and with 
as complete a change in countenance and expression as if she 
were a different person. 

Gratia told her errand with a sinking heart ; she was quite 
certain she never should be able to suit this elegant personage’s 
.requirements. 

“Oh, yes, it’s quite right,” said Mrs. Moultrie. “I do need 
a nurse-girl. Simmons, my head nurse, is a very experienced 
woman, but I want some one to assist her. Do you know any- 
thing about children ?” 

“Oh, yes, ma’am.” 

“ Well— Simmons will show you everything.” Mrs. Moultrie 
touched a little bell on the hall table. 

“Have you many children, ma’am?” Gratia ventured to 
ask. 

“Six — or seven. I don’t exactly know which. I expect two 
more next week.” 

Gratia opened her eyes wildly, but before she had an oppor- 
tunity to ask any further questions a tall, somber-looking wo- 
man, in black, came down stairs. 

“Simmons,” said Mrs. Moultrie, “here is a young person 
come about the place of nurse-maid.” 

“Yes, ’um,”said Simmons, sourly. 

“I think she’ll do,” said Mrs. Moultrie. 

“What wages do she want, ’urn ?” said Simmons, looking at 
Gratia as if she were a spider or a reptile, or some other dis- 
agreeable object. 

“ We hadn’t mentioned that,” said Mrs. Moultrie, indiffer- 
ently. “Of course, I expect to give her what Susanne had 
—twelve dollars a month. Will that suit you, Grace ?” 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


53 


“Quite so, ma'am/’ said Gratia, hesitatingly; “but my 
name is Gratia.” 

“ I dare say,” said Mrs. Moultrie, “but I shall call you 
Grace. I don’t like those three-volume novel names. Take 
her up into the nursery, Simmons, and don't let me have any 
more trouble about it.” 

Simmons beckoned Gratia to follow her, and Mrs. Moultrie 
rustled back into the parlor, while the girl ascended the softly 
carpeted stairs, and passed through a long entry into a sort of 
back building. Here the external splendor seemed to cease. 
The next flight of stairs was uncarpeted, the bare white walls 
were finger-marked and dirty, and the light streamed through 
unwashed windows, guiltless of shade or drapery. While Gratia 
was wondering at this difference in general effect, a door was 
thrown open by Simmons, with the brief remark : 

“ This is the nursery.” 

It was a large, dreary room, with a row of cribs along one 
side, a faded oil-cloth on the floor, and almost no furniture, 
save what was absolutely necessary. There were four or five 
little children in the room, but they were not playing, or shout- 
ing, as children ordinarily do. One was asleep in its crib — 
another lay stretched on the rug before the fire, sucking her 
thumb and gazing up at the ceiling with lack-luster eyes — the 
others were sitting on the floor, apparently busied in no partic- 
ular amusement or avocation. 

“Nurse, nurse,” cried one, as Simmons entered, “won’t you 
let Flora out? She’s cried, oh, so hard.” 

Mrs. Simmons shook her head. 

“ She’s to stay in the dark closet till the naughty bears come 
to eat her up,” she said, austerely. “That’s what always hap- 
pens to little girls as says they don’t love Mrs. Moultrie.” 

The little boy crept nearer to his companion, with round, 
scared eyes. 

“Will the bears come in here, nurse?” 

“ Yes, if I call ’em.” 


54 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


“Oh, dear — oh, dear;” wailed the little fellow, “I want to 
go home ! I want my papa !” 

‘ ‘ George, ” said Mrs. Simmons, with a stamp of her foot that 
sounded like a miniature report of artillery, “do you re- 
member what was done to Aleck White when he cried to go 
home ?” 

“Yes,” admitted George, with drooping head. 

“What?” 

“ He was shut up and whipped, and he hit his head against 
the door. Will he die, nurse?” 

“Nonsense !” said Mrs. Simmons, giving the little child who 
lay on the rug a push with her foot. “ Aleck, get up.” 

The child, a little fellow of scarcely five years old, obeyed, 
and sat up, but did not offer to move further. 

“Is he sleepy?” asked Gratia, hurrying to his side. 

“Please to let him alone,” said Mrs. Simmons, with acidity. 
“Discipline is discipline, and I can’t and won’t have mine 
.interfered with. He’s only sulky, and as ugly as Satan to boot. 
Aleck !” 

“Yes, nurse.” 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Are you sick ?” 

“ Me tired, nurse.” 

Grace, look after that child in the crib. She acts queer* 
perhaps she’s going to have a fit.” 

Hadn t I better go for a doctor ?” said Gracia, growing 

pale. 

What should you go for a doctor for?” sniffed Mrs. Sim- 
mons, contemptuously. “ Those Townsends are always fitty. 
Two of ’em has died here.” 

“Here?” 

“Why, yes; what are you staring for? It’s a home for 
children.” 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


55 


Gratia had taken the little four-year-old creature from the 
crib and nestled it close to her bosom. 

“See,” said Gratia, “she thinks I'm her mother.” 

“Fiddlestick!” said Mrs. Simmons; “much she knows 
about mothers anyhow. Her mother died when she was born, 
and her father’s got a young wife that don’t want to be both- 
ered with another woman’s children.” 

“Me got a mamma,” cried little George, triumphantly. 

“Yes, and you might just as well not have any,” said Mrs. 
Simmons; “she’s a gay woman, going to balls and parties, 
and glad to get decently rid of you. Aleck, sit up again. ” 

“ Me so tired, nurse !” 

“I don’t care whether you are or not. That child is all 
right enough, Grace — you needn’t fool any longer with her.” 

“But I like to hold the poor little thin thing,” said Gratia, 
fondling the claw-like fingers which clasped themselves round 
her hand. 

“I dare say, but you’ll soon find this ain’t no place for 
dawdling. There’s something to do besides humoring cross 
young ones. Stretch these clothes ready for ironing — these 
children do dirty such a sight of clothes.” 

Gratia obeyed, but while she worked the sound of constant 
moanings reached her ears. 

“What is that noise?” she asked at length, driven to a sort 
of desperation. 

“It’s only Flora Elwell,” said Mrs. Simmons, “the most 
troublesome child we’ve got. She tried to run away yester- 
day, and she’s settling accounts for it now — that’s all.” 

“How old is she?” 

“Six, I guess, or thereabouts.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Simmons, she is too young to be so harshly 
treated,” pleaded Gratia. “ Let me go to her.” 

“You just mind your own business till you’re asked to med- 
dle with other people’s,” said Mrs. Simmons, roughly. “I’vq 


56 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


got the key of that dark closet in my pocket, and there it’ll stay 
till I choose to take it out.” 

Gratia said no more, until Mrs. Simmons’ temporary absence 
from the room gave her an opportunity. 

“ George,” she said to the bright little boy, who was the only 
one among the children who evinced anything like childish ani- 
mation or vivacity, “how often does Mrs. Moultrie visit the 
nursery?” 

“Oh, Mamma Moultrie never comes.” 

“Why not?” 

“Don’t know,” was the carelessly uttered reply. 

“Is she good to you ?” 

“ ’Ess, ” Georgie answered. “I love Mamma Moultrie. I 
love Nurse Simmons. They whips little boys ’at don’t say 
so. They whipped Aleck. Mamma Moulrie never comes here, 
but when my. own mamma comes to see me I am washed and 
my hair curled, and I go to the company nursery, where Kate 
and Gussie Moultrie stay all the time. There’s a big spotted 
rocking-horse there, and some marbles. It’s nicer than it is 
here. ” 

At this stage of Georgie’s confidences Mrs'. Simmons came 
back. 

“If there isn’t that dratted child over on his back again !” 
she exclaimed, setting poor little Aleck up with a jerk. “ I be- 
lieve he’s gettin’ to be a fool.” 

And the child’s vacant face, as he looked up in her face, mur- 
muring, “Me tired, me tired !” would almost seem to confirm 
her words. 

“I’m. sure if he is, it’ll be all your fault,” said a pleasant- 
looking woman, who had come in with a pile of blankets on 
her arm. “ He was bright enough when first he came here, the 
Lord help him !” 

“ Hold your tongue, Hannah !” said Mrs. Simmons, sharply. 

“ Haven’t you let that Flora out yet ?” asked Hannah, paus- 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


57 


ing after she had deposited her burden on one of the empty 
cribs. 

“ No !” snarled Nurse Simmons, showing her yellow, decayed 
stumps of teeth, like an infuriated elderly tigress. 

“Well, then, it’s a shame !” ejaculated Hannah ; “and if I 
knew where her friends were I’d let ’em know some of the go- 
ings on here.” 

“ Mrs. Simmons, I don’t at all understand this,” said Gratia. 
“Where is Mrs. Moultrie? Does she never visit these little 
children, whose cares she has taken upon her ?” 

Hannah, who had just reached the door-way, turned round 
and laughed. 

“No !” she answered. “ You’ll learn a thing or two, young 
woman, before you’ve been long in this place. Mrs. Moultrie 
pockets the money — plenty of it, there is, too, for the fools aren’t 
all dead yet — and acts the sweet, and affectionate, and amiable 
— dear, dear ! none so soft as she. You’d think to hear her 
talk butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth — and there’s the end of 
it. All the rest you can see for yourself. Mrs. Simmons does 
the dirty work ; she’s well paid for it, too — and the children do 
the starving, and fretting, and pining away.” 

Aud having thus relieved her mind, Hannah went away. 

“Would it not be better for me to put this little fellow on the 
lounge or in one of the cribs?” involuntarily asked Gratia, as 
she observed Aleck moving uneasily on his hard couch. 

“ No !” said Mrs. Simmons, with asperity, “he’s well enough. 
And he has got to sit up and behave like other children. I 
won’t have him encouraged in making a great baby of himself. 
Aleck ! Aleck, I say !” 

But the child did not answer, or seem to heed her call. 

“I think he has fainted,” said Gratia, apprehensively. 

“ Pshaw ! Stuff and nonsense !” said the amiable Mrs. Sim- 
mons. “ It’s all stubborness. Throw a cup of cold water up 
his nostrils — or, stay — better pinch him in the leg ; a good nip, 
now. ” 


58 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


But instead of following this experienced counsel, Gratia 
took the wretched child tenderly in her arms. He opened his 
eyes and looked feebly up. 

“ He’s sleepy,” said George. “ Nurse gave him two or three 
spoonfuls of sleepy drink last night, ’cause he cried. I heerd 
him, out of my crib.” 

“ Hush !” said Mrs. Simmons, stamping her foot on the floor. 
“Land o’ liberty! what long tongues these children have! 
Here, Grace,” tossing a key toward her, “put Aleck down, and 
let him be quiet for three seconds at a time, if he will. You 
go to the closet, and see if anything ails Flora. She’s left off 
whining this good while.” 

Following the direction of Mrs. Simmons’ outstretched finger, 
Gratia unlocked the door of a dark closet, half full of mildewed 
boots and shoes, and stuffy-smelling clothes, and there, crouched 
up in a little heap, close to the threshold, lay a child, with rigid 
features, and tangled yellow curls, all matted together over an 
ashen face. 

“Gracious heavens !” exclaimed Gratia, clasping her hands; 
“ she is dead !” 


CHAPTER XI. 

GRATIA LEAVES HER SITUATION. 

“ Mercy on us!” cried Mrs. Simmons. “ What a fool the 
girl is ! Shut the door again ; she is doing well enough ; she’s 
asleep ; I’m used to their deceitful ways, and you ain’t.” 

Gratia bent over and placed her hand against the child’s lips, 
listening a moment for the breath that did not come. 

“Oh, Mrs. Simmons, the poor little thing is insensible !” 

Mrs. Simmons started to her feet. 

“ I don’t believe 'it !” she exclaimed ; but there was a curious 
white streak across her forehead, and a terrified light in her 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


59 


eyes, as she hurried to Gratia’s side. “ I dare say it’s only one 
o' them ’leptic fits/' said she, glancing guiltily around. 
“These obstinate children are all the very mischief for fits, and 
I never had one to deal with as obstinate as Flora Elwell. Get 
me the camphor and hartshorn, you Grace. Open the window, 
some one.” 

But all efforts to resuscitate the child proved unavailing, and 
Hannah, the refractory ^chambermaid, was sent in hot haste for 
a doctor. 

“ Plague take the young one !” said Mrs. Simmons. “And 
just as missis is gone out for her drive in the park. There ! 
she’s beginning to come to a little now. I wish I hadn’t been 
so hasty in sending Hannah ; these doctors always ask such a 
sight of questions. I suppose I've got to take her to the com- 
pany nursery.” 

“Why?” asked Gratia, fixing her clear eyes full upon the 
nurse’s repulsive face. 

“Why?” echoed Mrs. Simmons, contemptuously. “Why 
do you always take the best bedroom to be sick in, and wear 
your prettiest nightcap when the doctor comes ? Help me with 
her, quick, and don’t let’s have any more silly questions.” 

The “company nursery ’’was a large, handsome room in the 
main building of the house, with a richly patterned Brussels 
carpet, rosewood cribs, fitted up with pearl-white linen and 
snowy Marseilles spreads, and toys scattered around in liberal 
profusion. Mrs. Moultrie’s own two children were out driving 
with their mother, and there was, at present, no occupant of 
the luxurious apartment. 

As Mrs. Simmons laid Flora in one of the cozy little nests of 
fine linen and lace, the child groaned slightly — the first evidence 
she had given of life. 

“ There’s a bruise on her forehead,” said the nurse, sponging 
away at the little blue-veined temples with more energy than 
gentleness. “I’ll bet anything she’s gone and fell against the 
edge of the door. Hush — is that the doctor ? Oh, doctor” — 


60 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


as a fine-looking, middle-aged man crossed the threshold — 
“its such a relief to see you here. Dear little Flora’s very 
poorly. ” 

The doctor sat down beside the crib, felt the child’s pulse, 
and examined her critically. 

“Doctor,” cried Mrs. Simmons, “you don’t think ” 

“I think she is very ill — much more so than you have any 
idea of,” said the doctor. “You should have sent for me be- 
fore. ” 

Hannah, the chambermaid, was standing on the threshold of 
the up-stairs nursery, with the tears running down her cheeks, 
as Gratia came toward it. 

“You needn’t tell me what the doctor said,” she broke out, 
passionately. “I know well enough that Flora’s going to die 
— little merry-hearted Flora, that was the flower of the whole 
flock. They’ve killed her, between ’em — that’s what they’ve 
done ! Don’t / remember what she was when she first came 
here, with that pious, canting old grandmother of hers, ?that 
couldn’t spare time from camp-meetings and church-going to 
bring up her own flesh and blood. It’s murder, that’s just 
what it is, and poor little Aleck’s worse off yet !” 

“ Why do you stay here then ?” Gratia asked, gravely. 

“Because I can’t help myself — that’s why. I’ve been in sore 
need of money once or twice, and Mrs. Moultrie’s lent it to 
me, and now I am in her toils for good and all. But I warn 
you to take my advice and clear out as soon as ever you decent- 
ly can.” 

“And leave these poor little ones ?” 

“That’s been one thing that’s kept me here,” cried Hannah, 
throwing her frilled white apron over her head. “ It’s little I 
can do, anyway, but once in a while I get a chance to help the 
poor things, in an underhand way, and that’s a sort of comfort 
to me. Oh, poor little Flo ! she was like a daisy when first she 
came here, but no one would know her now.” 

“ Perhaps she may get better,” said Gratia, soothingly. 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


61 


“She’ll never be better,” said Hannah, “and its just as well 
she shouldn’t be. Anywhere, to get out of this place.” 

The words proved true. 

The next day Hannah helped to dress little Flora Elwell for 
the grave, in flowers scarcely whiter than her own attenuated 
cheeks, and her yellow hair carefully combed out and curled. 

There was a showy casket, and a profusion of flowers and 
white satin ribbon, and Mrs. Moultrie indulged in a great show 
of sentimental sorrow as they carried the poor little child out of 
the prison-house whence death had released her. 

Gratia was sitting in the nursery, with Aleck in her lap, when 
Mrs. Simmons returned to her own proper domains. Some re- 
semblance, real or fancied, between the child and her own little 
brother, Raymond, had established him firmly in her heart. 
So shocked had she been at the systematic neglect and cruelty 
practiced in the “Maternal Home,” that she would have been 
tempted to leave Mrs. Moultrie’s house at once, had it not been 
for the hold little Aleck had already gained upon her affections. 

“See, Hannah!” she said one day to the chambermaid, 
“how much brighter and better he looks.” 

Hannah shook her head. 

“It’s all your fancy, Grace,” she said. “ They drummed the 
poor wits he had out of his head long before you came here — 
Simmons and a German nurse-girl that was worse than she was. 
I wouldn’t try to keep him here if I was you. It’s no kindness.” 

“ Hannah !” Gratia gathered the child into her arms with a 
scared look. 

“ I’m in earnest, and I mean it,” said Hannah. “You see, 
I’ve lived longer in the world than you have, Grace.” 

Gratia remained nearly three months at the Maternal Home ; 
she might have remained longer, had not the sole tie that kept 
her there been relaxed by little Aleck’s death, and she had at 
least the satisfaction of knowing that his last days were sweeten- 
ed by her constant care and tenderness. 

The simple funeral took place from the Maternal Home— 


62 


GRATIA S TRIALS. 


Aleck White’s mother being in Europe, traveling with her 
second husband, who was some eight or ten years younger than 
herself ; and Mrs. Moultrie wrote a long eight-page letter to the 
bereaved parent, in which she satisfactorily proved that her child 
had walked the path of roses to his death, and sent in a prodi- 
gious bill for medical attendance, nursing, and posthumous ex- 
penses. 

She was yet engaged in the preparation of this flowing piece 
of epistolary composition, when Gratia entered the room with 
flushed cheek and sparkling eyes. 

•‘Mrs. Moultrie,” she said, “Mrs. Simmons is sending 
Georgie to bed in the dark room, without any supper, because 
he accidentally broke her spectacles. ” 

Mrs. Moultrie looked up, abstractedly biting the handle of 
her elegant gold pen. 

“Very careless of George,” she mildly observed. 

“ But he is such a little child, ma’am ; and he has had noth- 
ing to eat since noon. It is cruel.” 

“ Nurse Simmons is the best judge of that,” said Mrs. Moul- 
trie, with a ring of impatience in her tone. 

“But, Mrs. Moultrie ” 

“I would prefer no further discussion of the subject,” said 
Mrs. Moultrie, in a voice as smooth as a flute, and harder than 
adamant. “ I make it a rule never to interfere with Nurse 
Simmons’ discipline.” 

“But she is cruel — wicked — tyrannical !” cried Gratia. “I 
cannot bear to stand by and see her oppress those poor, helpless 
children.” 

Mrs. Moultrie opened a gilt-edged memorandum-book, 
bound in mother-of-pearl. 

“ Let us see,” she said, sweetly ; “you have been here three 
months next Tuesday. Well, we will stretch a point and call 
it three months. Here are your wages.” 

“Do you mean to dismiss me ?” 

“I do.” 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


63 


Gratia took the roll of clean, rustling bills, and turned 
silently away. Homeless though she was, she felt that she 
would rather lodge in the streets than be longer sheltered under 
the roof which contained hearts like those of Mrs. Moultrie and 
her grim functionary, Nurse Simmons. 


CHAPTER XII. 

GOING TO LONG BRANCH. 

Half an hour afterward Hannah Ingram came up into the 
chamber which the two girls mutually occupied at night, and 
found Gratia packing her few simple belongings. 

“Going, eh?” said Hannah. “Well, I always supposed it 
would come to this. The only wonder is that you staid so 
long. Oh, dear! I wish I was going loo, but I owe Madam 
Moultrie too much money. Where are you going?” 

“I don’t know, Hannah,” Gratia answered, despairingly. 
“Anywhere away from here.” 

“ Haven’t you any friends ?” 

Gratia shook her head. 

“ Nor any place to go to ?” 

“ No.” 

“Well, now I’ll tell you what,” said Hannah. “If you 
want another situation ” 

“I must get one or I shall starve,” said Gratia, in a hard, 
suppressed voice. 

“Then maybe I can help you to one,” said Hannah. “I’ve 
got a cousin living chambermaid and waitress, and help with the 
fine washing and ironing, in as nice a family as ever was ; 
fourteen dollars a month, and not much to do. And she’s 
to be married in a few days, and you can step right into 
her shoes.” 

Gratia’s wan face brightened. 

“ Where is it ?” 


64 


GBATIA'S TRIALS. 


“ They live on Twenty-sixth street, mostly, but they’ve got a 
cottage at Long Branch for the summer season. Any one 
can direct you to Mrs. Walbridge’s. Mary Ann has told me 
it's one of the prettiest cottages there, just on the edge of the 
sea-shore.” 

“I should like that,” said Gratia. “ I never saw the sea.” 

“Then all I’ve got to do is to give you a line to Mary 
Ann,” said Hannah. 

And Gratia left the house in good time, thanks to Hannah’s 
expedition. She would have liked to visit the nursery once 
more, and kiss the little ones good-by, but Mrs. Simmons reso- 
lutely interposed her veto to this. 

“I don’t want no fretting nor whimperieg,” said that Roman 
matron, “and I’ve seen quite^enough of you, Grace, as it 
is. ” 

Gratia reached Long Branch just before sundown, and on 
presenting herself at Mrs. Walbridge’s cottage, found a dis- 
mantled look about the whole place, as if the household gods 
were on the wing. To Grace’s modest inquiry for Mrs. Wal- 
bridge, a fat, elderly woman replied : 

“She's at home — yes ; but unless your business is very urgent, 
miss, you’ll have to excuse seeing her. The family leaves for 
Europe day after to-morrow. ” 

To Gratia Kempfield this item of information was like a stun- 
ning blow. She stood pale and startled. 

“ Is there anything I can do for you?” the woman asked, 
kindly. “ You look tired.” 

If she had shut the door in Gratia’s -face, the girl might have 
gone away, carrying her burden of desolation as best she might. 
But there was something in the kindly sympathy of the good 
old cook’s voice that touched the hidden spring of tears in the 
heart of the forlorn young wanderer. 

“ Dear me, child, what fs the matter?” she asked. “Tell 
me quick, for I haven’t much time to spare. What is your 
business with Mrs. Walbridge ?” 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


05 

In answer, Gratia presented the letter of introduction she had 
received fiom Jier friend, Hannah Ingram. 

“Mary Ann has gone away ; she was to be married to-mor- 
row, ” said the woman. “ Shall I read the letter?” 

“ If you please, ma'am,” said Gratia, dejectedly. 

“ It is too bad,” she said, after reading the words in which 
Hannah recommended the young stranger to her relative. 
“ But, you see, this notice of going to Europe was very sudden 
— Mrs. Walbridge only determined on it a week ago — and, of 
course, we shut up the house while we’re gone, and my daugh- 
ter — she’s married to the gardener — lives in one of the base- 
ment rooms, and keeps an eye on things. There wouldn’t be 
no place for you, fix it how you would. I wouldn’t cry so, 
though ; that won’t mend matters.” 

“ But I cannot help it,” sobbed Gratia. “I was so certain 
of finding a home here.” 

‘ * I know of a good place you could get, as assistant cham- 
bermaid at the Ocean Wave Hotel, if I choose to give you my 
recommendation. You would have plenty to do, but then you 
would get good wages for it.” 

“ I would always be grateful to you,” murmured Gratia, her 
eyes speaking more eloquently than did her voice. 

At about nine o’clock Gratia accompanied the old woman in 
a moonlight walk along the shore to the Ocean Wave Hotel, 
where Mrs. Burket presented her to the favorable consideration 
of Miss Lavinia Peckering, the housekeeper. 

The upshot of their deliberations was that Gratia Kempfield 
was formally installed next morning as one of the numerous 
staff of chambermaids in the Ocean Wave Hotel at Long 
Branch. 


66 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

IDA FALCONER. 

It was the beginning of the season at Long Branch, and the 
Ocean Wave Hotel was full of pleasure seekers and health 
worshipers. Gratia found her duties light and pleasant, and 
began thoroughly to enjoy the variety by which she was per- 
petually surrounded. 

“Chambermaid 1 ” 

The door of No. 32 was pushed slightly open, and its occu- 
pant, the pale young mother of half a dozen unruly little chil- 
dren, beckoned to Gratia, who was sweeping off the back 
veranda She laid down her broom, and went to attend to the 
summons. 

“ Yes, ma’am — what can I do for you ?” 

Gratia was a general favorite among the guests at the Ocean 
Wave. Her cheerful buoyancy and merry alacrity, her willing- 
ness to oblige, and unvarying sweetness of temper, would have 
secured kind feeling toward her everywhere. Mrs. Champion 
looked almost envyingly at her. 

“You are always so rosy,” she said, with a sigh. “ I wish 
I was as healthy and light-hearted. Here, Grace, take this 
pitcher down to the shore and bring it to me full of salt water. 
The doctor says Minnie must have a sponge bath in sea-water 
every morning.” 

Minnie, a pale, rickety child of thirteen or fourteen months, 
lay among the pillows of her crib ; but even she smiled a faint 
smile as Gratia passed her by. 

The fashionable hour of bathing had not yet come, and the 
children and nurses had almost undisputed possession of the 
beach, as Gratia descended the flight of wooden stairs, leading 


GRATIA’S TRIALS . 


67 


from- the esplanade to the shore. Close to where Gratia stood 
waiting for her pitcher of sea-water, a stylish nurse -maid, in a 
flounced muslin dress, a broad, striped sash, and a fluted mus- 
lin cap, was carrying on a flirtation with a bather. 

“Indeed, Miss Natalie, it’s true/' he asserted. “This air 
does give you the most charming color !” 

“Oh, I know just how much to believe of what you men 
say I” asserted Natalie, with a coquettish flirt of the parasol she 
held. “ I’ve been before where — mercy on us ! What’s that ?" 

“That” was a wild, choking cry from the surf. The little 
lame child, who had been placed under the tender guardian- 
ship of Miss Natalie, had strayed farther and farther down the 
shingly, sloping floor of the beach, until she had been thrown 
down by the violence of a heavier billow than had hitherto 
rolled shoreward, and now lay shrieking at the mercy of the 
merciless tides. 

“Oh, good gracious !” screamed Natalie, wringing her hands. 
“She’s drowned ! she’s drowned !” 

The bather sprang toward the spot with a smothered cry, but 
Gratia was before him. Heedless of her own light summer 
clothing, and the cruel, chilly rush of the waves, which flung 
tides of surf over her, she had rushed into the water aud caught 
the child — a little girl of seven or eight years old — in her arms, 
and boldly stemmed the receding wave. 

“ Hush !” she murmured, soothingly, to the screaming child ; 
“hush, dear — you are quite safe now. See, we are clear up on 
the shore, and now I’ll take you to the hotel for some nice, 
warm, dry clothes. Tell me which your room is.” 

“I’m Ida,” said the child, through her hysterical sobs. 
“Where is Natalie? Natalie told me not to bother when I 
asked her to come, too. Oh, I thought I was drowned !” 

It takes very little to create a sensation at a place like Long 
Branch, and in a second almost, as it seemed, the shores, that 
had seemed comparatively deserted, were all a-swarm. The 
wild rumor that “a child was drowned” had somehow swept 


68 


GRATIA 8 TRIALS. 


through the verandas and walks, and before Natalie could snatch 
her terrified charge from Gratia’s arms, the little girl’s father, a 
tall, handsome man, with jet black eyes and hair, had inter- 
posed. 

“ Is this the care you take of my little lame darling, girl ?” he 
angrily demanded of the nurse-girl. 

“Oh, papa, papa !” sobbed little Ida. “I was drowned, and 
I screamed so loud, and the cold water came all over my 
neck.” 

“My treasure,” murmured the father, letting his face droop 
for an instant over his child’s, to conceal the emotion he could 
not repress. 

“It was not my fault, sir,” exclaimed Natalie, all in a tremble. 
“Miss Ida would go down close to the waves, and when I called 
her back she would not come.” 

“You told me not to bother,” said Ida, innocently. “ N'o, 
papa, I won’t go back to Natalie ; I don’t like Natalie ! 
Let the other girl carry me — the nice girl with the bright 
eyes. ” 

And she held out her arms confidingly to Gratia. 

The young girl came forward and took the slender form 
of the little creature. Natalie would have pushed her 
away. 

“ It is my busineos to carry my young lady,” she said, inso- 
lently. 

“Don’t, Natalie — you hurt me,” wailed Ida, as the flounced 
maid tried to wrest her from Gratia’s arms. 

The gentleman turned sternly to the girl. 

“You are discharged from my service, Natalie,” he said, 
sternly. “Your neglect of your duty, too long overlooked, has 
now nearly caused a fatal result. Miss Ida Falconer has no 
further need of such care as yours. This young person,” turn- 
ing to Gratia with something of an appealing look in his eyes, 
“ will, I dare say, take care of you until we are able to se- 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


cure a more trustworthy maid than Natalie has proved her- 
self." 

Gratia colored high with shy gratification, as she turned to 
carry little [Ida to the hotel, murmuring a word or two of 
assent. 

“What's your name?” asked Ida, gravely. 

“Gratia Kempfield.” 

“ Gratia— Gratia !” repeated the little girl. “It’s a pretty 
name. I like it. I like you, Gratia. I wish you'd stay and be 
my nurse.” 

Gratia hardly knew what response to make to this startling 
overture. 

“ Perhaps your mamma wouldn’t like it,” said she. 

“Oh, I havenlt got any mamma,” said Ida, innocently. 
“ Didn’t you know it? My mamma died when I was a /ee-t\e, 
tee - ny baby. If I’d had a mamma, she wouldn’t have let me 
fall down the area steps and hurt my leg so I have to walk with 
a crutch. Oh, dear !” — with sudden remembrance — “and my 
crutch is gone, too. It’s lost in the water.” 

“Never mind,” said Gratia; “you can easily get. another 
one. ” 

At this moment the father of the child joined them, and took 
Ida in his own strong, tender arms. 

“My jewel,” he whispered, softly, “my little, dark-eyed 
lamb, whom I had so nearly lost. It makes me tremble when 
I think of the danger you have so narrowly escaped.” 

“Papa, don’t cry, faltered Ida, herself moved to new tears 
through the impulse of sympathy. “I was ’most drowned, but 
Gratia pulled me out of the water. Papa, can Gratia be my 
nurse now?” 

The gentleman colored and looked a little embarrassed. 
Gratia comprehended his dilemma in an instant. 

“Iam one of the chambermaids at the Ocean Wave, sir,” 
she said, herself turning scarlet. “I happened by good for- 
tune to be on the shore at the moment when ” 


70 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


“ That settles the matter,” said Colonel Falconer, “if you 
would consent to fill the position of my little girl’s attendant, 
at least for a few days, until we can replace the woman whose 
criminal neglect had so nearly proved fatal.” 

“ Do, Gratia ! We’ll have such nice times together !” whis- 
pered Ida, patting her new friend’s cheek. “ Please , Gratia.” 

“ But I am afraid I should not be able to give satisfaction,” 
hesitated Gratia, who had caught chance peeps afar off of the 
Falconer family as one of the wealthiest and most stylish who 
were staying at the Ocean Wave Hotel. 

“We will risk that,” said Colonel Falconer, kindly. “That 
is, if you really are not unwilling to undertake the charge of 
Ida.” 

“ Oh, sir,” said Gratia, artlessly. “ I should be delighted !” 

“ I am so glad, papa !” chirped Ida. 

And this was our young heroine’s first promotion in the lad- 
der of life. 

All this time they had been hurrying up the wooden steps, 
and across the lawn, and now stood opposite the door of No. 
ioo, which Colonel Falconer threw open and entered without 
further ceremony. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

WINNING HER WAY. 

Plugo Falconer was a widower of about two and thirty years, 
exceedingly handsome, after the dark, Spanish style, with large 
dark eyes, hair thick, glossy, and so black that it caught a pur- 
plish tint in the shadow, and he was one of the partners in a 
large banking-house on Wall street— Miller, Falconer & Co. 
The senior member of the firm was a rich bachelor uncle, 
Ralph Miller, by name, who was also staying at the Ocean 
Wave, with his sister and her family. He was a short, bald- 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


71 


headed gentleman of about fifty-five, with keen blue eyes, a 
nose like an eagle’s beak, and the dictatorial manner which be- 
longs, however unconsciously, to the rich man who has yet to 
choose his heirs. All the Falconer family, with the single ex- 
ception of his nephew', Hugo, w-erein awe of Uncle Ralph and 
enacted the affectionately subservient. Was it to be wondered 
at that he acquired a degree of arrogance in his bearing and 
manner ? 

Mrs. Falconer was a lady who all her life had made great 
show* upon little foundation, and always contrived to outlive 
her income. Perhaps, as Uncle Ralph surlily insisted, it was 
natural to her ; if she had had the income of the Baroness Roth- 
schild she would still have spent a few sovereigns more per 
annum ; perhaps, on the other hand, it was owing entirely to 
the fact of that income having been comparatively small. She 
had married a dashing, handsome man, who had spent her 
little fortune, and died leaving her penniless. Hugo, her eldest 
child, had entered the arena of business life at a very early age, 
and proved eminently successful therein. He had married and 
was left a w’idower when young, but throughout his whole 
financial career he had uniformly made his mother a liberal 
allowance, upon which she shone at watering-places and fash- 
ionable haunts. In New York she kept Uncle Ralph Miller’s 
house for him— a splendid mansion on Fifth avenue, which 
afforded a luxurious home for herself and her family. 

She had two other children besides Hugo— Robert, a son 
of about twenty-two, who pretended to be studying law, but in 
reality, did nothing most persistently. He was a handsome 
young blonde, as unlike Hugo as it was possible for two 
brothers to be. As for intellect, he might have had a com- 
manding one, but up to the present date it had not developed 
itself. 

Alberta Falconer, the youngest of the family, was a brunette 
of twenty, a thorough New York girl, with dashing manners, 
showy accomplishments, and plenty of confidence in her own 


72 


OB ATI A' S TRIALS. 


ability and talent As Robert Falconer depended on his Uncle 
Ralph for the advancement of his future fortunes, so Alberta 
had been educated to scheme and maneuver for a rich husband 
as the goal of all her hopes. Mrs. Falconer had brought her 
only daughter up in extravagant habits and tastes, and her only 
hope of ever being able to indulge them completely was through 
the “ coming man.” 

“ Hugo is always preaching economy, and Uncle Ralph is 
shamefully stingy 1” declared the young lady. “But if I can 
only marry as I mean to, I'll show them !” 

Alberta was simply fine-looking. Her eyes and hair were 
black, but her features were rather coarse, her complexion poor, 
and her teeth too large for her mouth. All that art could 
achieve or dress secure to atone for these deficiencies, w T as, how- 
ever, brought to the rescue, and Miss Falconer had the satisfac- 
tion of making a sensation wherever she went. 

And this was the family into which Gratia Kempfield was 
now introduced as the chosen attendant of Colonel Falconer’s 
motherless little daughter. Ida, an impulsive and affectionate 
child, spoiled by every one, and allowed her own way to a 
ruinous degree, in consequence of her lameness, became de- 
votedly attached to the new nurse, and would notice or obey 
no one else. 

“Come, darling,” said Mrs. Falconer, in a honeyed voice, 
one bright morning, “go with the other little girls down to dig 
sand. Here is your pail and spade. Papa thinks you stay too 
much indoors. Come, sweet !” 

Ida, who was coiled up on a cushion by the window, with 
a nest of pillows at her back and a book in her lap, 
looked up. 

“I shan’t !” said she, independently. “Don’t tease, grand- 
mother.” 

“Come,” insisted Mrs. Falconer; “you really ought to go 
out this charming morning.” 

But Ida still shook her jetty curls. 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


73 


“ No,” said she, “I shall stay and read the story of ‘ Cinder- 
ella and the Little Glass Slipper’ to Gratia, while she is mend- 
ing my stockings.” 

“ There it is,” said Alberta, “ that Gratia has just spoiled the 
child. Natalie was a great deal more judicious with her.” 

“Dused good taste the little puss has,” observed Robert, 
who was lounging on a sofa. “I wouldn't mind reading aloud 
‘Cinderella and the What’s-its-Name ’ myself. She’s as pretty 
as a blue-bell, that little Gratia.” 

“Robert,” said Mrs. Falconer, reprovingly, “I am aston- 
ished at you !” 

“ What for, mother? Don’t you suppose I have any eyes in 
my head ? She is pretty. Rynders, the artist, said, only yes- 
terday, that she had a head like a Madonna.” 

“Artists are privilged to be eccentric,” observed Alberta. 
“And she is such a mere child !” 

“ She is sixteen,” said Ida, “and I love her, oh, so much !” 

Alberta signaled to her brother not to pursue the subject 
further. 

“ Little pitchers have big ears,” she said. 

“ I know you mean me,” said Ida. “And I know Aunt 
Alberta doesn’t like Gratia, because she has got pink cheeks 
and such pretty white teeth. But I like her — and papa likes 
her. ” 

“The mischief he does !” whistled Robert Falconer. 

* * * * * * * 

“Gratia,” Ida said, when the two were alone that afternoon, 
by their own special veranda door, “what is a Madonna?” 

“Why?” 

‘ ‘ Because Mr. Rynders says you are like one. ” 

Gratia turned scarlet. 

He means an old picture, Ida. When did he say so?” 

“ I don’t know ; I didn’t hear him ; Uncle Robert told Aunt 
Alberta so. ” 

Ida was restless and sleepless that night. 


74 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


“ Oh, Gratia, I can’t sleep,” pleaded the child. “ The moon 
shines so bright and the music sounds so sweet. “ Let’s go and 
peep into the windows and see them dance.” For one of the 
first “hops” of the season was in progress. 

And Gratia, not unwilling to catch a fleeting glance at the 
show of fashion as it careered by, dressed the little girl in a 
loose, white wrapper and tied a pink satin hood over her head, 
and they went out on the balcony. 

There was a crowd round the open parlor casements, but 
Gratia Kempfield and her little charge contrived, through the 
good office of one of the waiters, to secure a cozy nook 
where, themselves unseen, they could watch the waltzers whisk 
by to the inspiriting strains of the band. 

“Gratia!” exclaimed the child, almost involuntarily, after 
they had been looking at the dancers for some time, “why 
don’t you go in and dance? There is not a girl there so 
pretty as you are. ” 

Gratia smiled and blushed. 

“You think so, because you love me, Ida,” she returned. 

“No, it’s really so,” gravely pronounced the little critic. 
“ You are a great deal prettier than my Aunt Alberta, who 
has so many bouquets, and drives, and beaus. Uncle Rob 
said last week that you would be a beauty if you only had 
opportunity. What does opportunity mean ?” 

“What I haven’t got, and never shall have,” merrily re- 
sponded Gratia. “Come, Ida, it’s getting late, and we must 
go back to our nest again.” 

Ida climbed obediently down from her seat ; somehow she 
never thought of rebelling against Gratia’s gentle decrees. 

“But I’m not sleepy,” she insisted; “I can’t go to sleep, 
unless you lie down on the bed beside me, and sing about 
the little child — Jesus — in the manger.” 

“ I will, then,” said Gratia, drawing the child’s arm through 
hers. 

And Gratia, with her cheek on the same pillow as Ida’s, 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


75 


murmured the cradle songs she had been used to sing to 
Raymond until the little girl fell fast asleep, with her coral 
lips ^apart, and one hand tightly grasping Gratia’s. 

But the young girl did not forget Ida’s words : 

“ There is not a girl there so pretty as you are.” 

“She knew it ; she could not but realize it, day after day, 
as she looked into the glass, and saw the plain, unvarnished 
reflection of her own face. 

“ Opportunity !” thought Gratia to herself, as she sat look- 
ing out at the moonlight on the waves, after the child was 
asleep. “Yes, that is the one thing that I lack. Yet how 
wrong, it is of me to repine, when I am laying by a little 
money for Raymond every month.” 

And she set herself to consider how many weeks, and 
months, and years it must be before she could redeem her 
promise to come and take Raymond away from Almira Kemp- 
field s unbending rule. 


CHAPTER XV. 

AN UPWARD STEP IN THE W'ORLD. 

“So you like Gratia Kempfield better than you did Natalie 
Browne, Ida ?” said Colonel Falconer, one evening. 

“ Oh, yes, papa,” cried Ida, joyously ; “ I’m perfectly happy 
now.” 

But the Current of Ida Falconer's life was not destined to run 
quite so smoothly always. The Long Branch season was not 
half over when the poor little creature fell ill of a slow fever — a 
wasting, cruel disease, which brought her tiny feet close to the 
gates of the grave. And in those nights of pain, those days of 
weary watching, Gratia seemed to be drawn nearer than ever to 
her little charge. No one was so patient, so unwearied, so 
gentle as Gratia, shrinking from none of the numerous exac- 


76 


GRATIA'S TRIALS. 


tions of the child-invalid ; and when, at last, after many a sick- 
ening fluctuation between hope and fear, Ida was pronounced 
to be out of danger, the physician frankly told Colonel Falconer 
that, under Providence, it was to the young nurse’s care that he 
owed his child’s life. 

After this, Ida became more passionately devoted than ever 
to Gratia Kempfield ; but the anomalous position in which this 
placed the young nurse, was sometimes not a little annoying. 

It was a lovely evening in August, and Mr. Miller’s open 
barouche had been ordered around to take the ladies for a 
drive. 

“It’s a beautiful afternoon for the shore road,” said Alberta. 
“ Mamma, suppose we call for Mrs. Verschoyle to go with us?” 

Mrs. Falconer agreed to the proposition, as she established 
herself snugly on the cushions of the back seat, with Ida next 
to her, and Alberta sitting opposite. 

“ Go on, Server !” said Miss Falconer, authoritatively^, to the 
driver. But at the same moment Ida called out : 

“ Gratia ! Where is Gratia ?” 

“Stop, Server !” cried Alberta. “ What on earth do you want 
of the girl, Ida ?” 

“To go with us,” said the child, with the exacting impe- 
riousness due to convalescence. “ I won’t go unless Gratia 
goes, too.” 

“ My dear child!” reasoned her grandmother; “we are going 
for a drive on the shore road with Mrs. Verschoyle.” 

“I don’t care,” fretted Ira; “I don’t like Mrs. Verschoyle, 
and I want Gratia. Let me get out !” 

Mrs. Falconer looked appealingly at her daughter. 

“What are we to do, Alberta?” 

“Horrid little petulant thing!” muttered Alberta, with no 
very amiable expression on her face. “Let her get out if she 
chooses !” 

“ But Hugo makes such a point of her having a drive in the 
fresh air every day, and Uncle Ralph does so spoil the child !” 


GRATIA’ 8 TRIALS. 


77 


,f And here are the consequences of the whole system !” said 
Alberta, angrily. “If you choose, mamma, to go trailing 
through Long Branch with a servant maid stuck up in the car- 
riage with you, you may do so — / won’t 1” 

“I don’t care whether you do or not, Aunt Alberta,” said 
Ida, saucily. “I love Gratia, and I don’t love you. I will 
have Gratia in the carriage.” 

“ Ida, Ida !” remonstrated Gratia, who had heard every word 
of the discussion from her place by the door. But Ida refused 
utterly to be appeased or quieted, and Alberta sprang out of 
the carriage with a countenance of indescribable disgust. 

“You had better get in. Miss Gratia,” she said, insolently 
emphasizing the prefix, “/shall remain at home.” 

Gratia hesitated ; the scarlet blood rushed hotly to her 
cheeks ; she did not move. 

“Gratia [’’called the child, holding out both hands. “Grand- 
mamma, tell her to come.” 

“Get in, Gratia,” said Mrs. Falconer, shortly, speaking with 
a suppressed voice. “The child must have her way, I sup- 
pose, but” — and she compressed her lips — “there will have to 
be a stop to this sort of thing. I must speak to my son 
Hugo.” 

It may readily be supposed that, after this, the airing was 
not particularly pleasant to Gratia, although Ida was in the 
highest of spirits, and chatted merrily away as the luxuriously 
cushioned carriage rolled along the thronged road. 

“Oh, grandmamma, look !” she cried; “there is Mr. Fen- 
wick, with all the children ; and Miss Allie Thorpe on horse- 
back ; and there goes Mr. Ardenham. Oh, see ! he is bowing 
to Gratia ; he thinks she is Aunt Alberta.” 

The child broke into a laugh as she spoke, but Mrs. Fal- 
coner’s brow darkened, and Gratia felt her face burn. 

“Mr. Ardenham is perhaps not aware,” said Mrs. Falconer, 
speaking in measured accents, “that in our family the nurse- 
maid not unfrequently usurps the place of the young lady.” 


78 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


“I know what that means,” cried Ida, after a moment’s 
grave consideration. “ Uncle Bob told me. It’s one who takes 
a place that doesn’t belong to him. King Richard the Third, 
in my ‘Child’s History of England,’ was a usurper .” 

Mrs. Falconer did not reply, but the lesson was not lost on 
Gratia. She felt herself, through no fault of her own, placed 
in a false position, and the chain of circumstances galled her 
cruelly. 

“ Home, Server 1” called out Mrs. Falconer, before they had 
half completed the proposed route. 

The coachman turned round on his box, with wide-open 
mouth. 

“ 1 thought we was goin’ all the way round, ma’am ?” 

“ Home !” sharply repeated his mistress, and Server felt that 
there was to be no appeal from the decision. 

Mrs. Falconer watched for the home-coming of her son with 
more than ordinary anxiety that night, and when he came, arm- 
in-arm with Mr. Miller, she beckoned him into her room. 

“ What’s the matter?'’ he asked. “ Where is Ida ?” 

“In her own room with Gratia. Hugo, I want to speak 
to you.” 

“And I want to speak to you also, mother; but go on. 
Ladies first, always.” 

“ It’s about that nurse-girl of Ida’s, Hugo. She is really too 
insolent and presuming to be tolerated.” 

“I do not think so, mother,” said Hugo Falconer, gravely. 
“ To me she seems remarkably modest and unassuming.” 

“To me, also,” said Mr. Miller, who sat by the window, 
smoking. 

“ She seems quite to have won the hearts of you gentlemen,” 
said Mrs. Falconer, bitterly. 

“Ida is very fond of her,” remarked Uncle Ralph. 

“Ida is a spoiled child,” and then Mrs. Falconer proceeded 
to relate the occurrences of the afternoon. 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


79 


“So very embarrassing,” said she, fanning herself, and out of 
breath from the vehemence with which she had spoken. 

“I do not see it at all,” said Mr. Miller, coolly. “If Ida 
was determined she should go, I do not suppose it would have 
hurt Alberta to remain at home, for once.” 

“And you do not think Gratia to blame ?” 

“Not at all.” 

“Oh, if that is the way you are going to take it,” said Mrs. 
Falconer, angrily, then it is no use in talking further. My re- 
monstrances are quite thrown away, and Ida's nurse is to have 
everything her own way.” 

“ I never thought she was at all inclined to presume,” said 
Colonel Falconer, dryly. 

“Of course not,” said his mother, fanning herself more 
energetically than ever. “There was a time, once, when my 
opinion was of some value in the family.” 

“ And there still is, mother, I hope,” said Colonel Falconer,^ 
good-humoredly. “But ” 

“ But,” interposed Mr. Miller, “you don't ask Hugo what 
news he brings ?” 

“News?” echoed Mrs. Falconer. “What do you mean, 
Ralph?” 

“Only that Hugo is going to Europe next week.” 

“To Europe ? To stay there ?” 

Mrs. Falconer had forgotten all her grievance in this astound- 
ing morsel of information. 

“ For months, if not for years,” said her son, quietly. “ I 
have anticipated this move for some time, and our business at 
last renders it necessary that either Uncle Ralph or I should go. 

I am the younger person of the two, so to my lot it falls. I 
shall start on Tuesday next.” 

Mrs. Falconer sat breathless and astonished. 

“And Ida?” 

“Ida will remain with you and Alberta for the present, at 
least. The allowance I shall make her will, I trust, help you 


80 


OR AT I A' 8 TRIALS. 


along in your household expenses, and I think I may depend 
on your loving custody of my little treasure.” 

Mrs. Falconer murmured something about Hugo always 
having been more than generous, and her own consciousness 
and appreciation of the trust reposed in her, but he interrupted 
the partially completed sentence. 

“And before I go, mother, I have determined to put at once 
into execution a plan which I have long had in contemplation. 

I mean to give my solitary child a sister and a companion.” 

Mrs. Falconer stared, and breathed quickly. Could it be 
possible that her son contemplated the, to her, distaste- 
ful step of marrying again, after all the years which he had 
dwelt a contented widower? But his next words entirely dissi- 
pated this half-formed idea, and replaced it with a certainty 
which was, “if possible, more odious” still. 

' “ I intend to adopt Gratia Kempfield as my daughter, and 

Ida’s sister,” slowly uttered Colonel Falconer. 

“ Hugo !” almost shrieked his mother, “you surely are not 
in earnest ?” 

“Yes, I am. Why should I not be?” 

“A girl like that — a nameless, homeless creature — the mere 
scum of the gutters ” 

“Stop a minute, mother, if you please,” said Hugo, calmly. 
“Nameless and homeless she is no longer. I have endowed 
her with my name and my home. The ‘ scum of the gutters’ — 
to use words which I must confess I never expected to hear 
from my mother’s lips — she never has been. The mere fact 
that I wish and intend to make her my daughter’s companion, 
is sufficient proof of that, I should think.” 

He spoke with a certain stern dignity of manner, before which 
Mrs. Falconer quailed. 

“Ralph,” she exclaimed, turning, "as a last resort, to her 
brother, “what do you think of this?” 

“Humph !” observed the old bachelor, slowly removing his 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


81 


cigar from between his lips ; “I think, in the first place, it is 
none of my business ; and in the second place, I must say that 
I approve of Hugo’s decision, and I think he has done a very 
wise thing.” 

Mrs. Falconer drew a long breath of despair and dismay. 

“What will Alberta say?” she exclaimed. 

“ It matters little what she says,” Colonel Falconer responded. 
“ But of this I wish you would warn her, mother — she must be 
more circumspect in her manner toward my adopted daughter 
than she has chosen to be toward Gratia Kempfield. You will 
remember this ?” 

Mrs. Falconer winced, but Hugo was too important a person 
in the family, especially as regarded financial matters, to be 
thwarted, and she was forced unwillingly to accede to his re- 
quest. Uncle Ralph and his nephew were both agreed on this 
point, and the dashing widow was in a minority. 

She was relieved at this moment by the entrance of Alberta 
herself. 

“Here she is herself,” said Mrs. Falconer. “Alberta, we 
were just speaking of you. Hugo wishes you to be particu- 
larly agreeable and polite to a young lady” (politic though 
she was, Mrs. Falconer could not suppress the spiteful intona- 
tion of her voice here) “whom he has chosen to adopt as his 
daughter. ” 

“Who is it?” eagerly demanded Alberta. 

“Gratia Kempfield.” 

“Impossible, mamma V f cried Alberta, incredulously. “Hugo 
never would be so mad — so quixotic !” 

“It is not only possible, my dear sister,” said Colonel Fal- 
coner, quietly, “but it is a fact to which you may as well 
reconcile yourselves now, as at any time. Gratia is to be my 
eldest child — that is, if she consents. I have not yet divulged 
my plans to her, but I shall proceed to do so at once. ” 

“Oh, she will consent readily enough, you may be quite 


82 


GRATIA' S TRIALS . 


sure of that, ” said Mrs. Falconer, tossing her head, while Al- 
berta still stood in speechless indignation and amazement. 

“Where is she?” asked Colonel Falconer. 

“With Ida, I suppose; the child seems bewitched to have 
her close at her side the whole time.” 

“ Shows good taste,” dryly remarked Uncle Ralph. 

And when Gratia Kempfield closed her eyes that night it was 
no longer as the paid drudge, the penniless menial who was at 
every one’s beck and call, but as the adopted daughter of the 
wealthy and aristocratic Colonel Hugo Falconer, and little Ida’s 
cherished sister. 

“I am so glad, darling Gratia !” repeated the child, over 
and over. “I was always so lonesome without a sister, and 
now I’ve got one all to myself. Tell me, Gratia, aren’t you 
glad?” 

Glad ? Gratia hardly knew. As yet she was scarcely able to 
acknowledge her own feelings. 

“Take time to consider, Gratia,” Colonel Falconer had 
kindly said to her. “That you have no friends to consult I am 
well aware, and that is one reason I have concluded to take 
this step. Ida’s sister must give her whole heart and affection 
to Ida alone. Had you relatives or friends, I should never have 
adopted you.” 

The burning scarlet rushed to Gratia’s brow. She had been 
on the point of telling him about Raymond, but these words 
effectually sealed her lips. The time had not yet come for the 
redemption of her promise to her little brother, but this very 
circumstance might bring it nearer with a swifter flight. 

“I need no lime to consider, sir,” she said, in a low, tremu- 
lous voice. “ I cannot but rejoice to accept your kind offer, if 
indeed you think me worthy to be called Ida’s sister.” 

She spoke faintly and hesitatingly, and a sensation of remorse 
stung her heart. Was she deceiving Colonel Falconer ? Was 
there a hidden treachery in her heart, unworthy of the noble 
nature which reposed such implicit trust in her ? Surely not ; 


GRATIA 1 8 TRIALS . 


for the secret she kept from him was kept from the whole 
world also. 

“Isn’t it nice, Gratia?” little Ida had cried, when Colonel 
Falconer had left them. ‘‘You’ll have splendid dresses now', 
like Aunt Alberta, and you and I will go in the carriage to 
select them, and you shall go to parties, and dance. And you 
will be so pretty, Gratia, and every one will fall in love with 
you, as the Prince did with Cinderella.” 

Gratia smiled at the child’s enthusiastic prattle, but the 
words sank into her heart. After all, why should not they 
come true ? 

Her heart throbbed, and the bright tears sparkled in her 
eyes — tears of happy, tremulous anticipation — as she contem- 
plated the radiant possibility. 

“Dear little Raymond !” was her last thought, ere she fell 
asleep, long after midnight ; “ if he only could know !” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

GRATIA ’S FIRST BALL 

“How provoking !” cried Alberta Falconer, her brow flush- 
ing angrily, as she threw aside a mammoth pasteboard box 
which had just been delivered by an obsequious w r aiter at the 
door of her room, with a “ Jes’ come from New York, miss.” 
“They have sent me a dress that the thinnest old maid in Long 
Branch couldn’t squeeze into. Does Madame Finelli think 
I’ve got the consumption, or gone into a decline?” 

Mrs. Falconer lifted up the dress, an exquisite lavender-col- 
ored crape, trimmed with festoons of black lace and lemon 
ribbon. 

“What a pity!” she exclaimed. “Finelli must have let 
some of those blundering women cut from the wrong pattern.” 

“ But I made her promise she would always fit my dresses 
herself,” almost sobbed Alberta. 


84 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


•‘As if such people ever kept their promises after your back 
was turned I” said Mrs. Falconer, contemptuously. 

“ At all events, I won’t pay her a cent for the dress !” fumed 
Alberta. 

And she caught up the gold-bright folds, and tossed them 
away from her. 

“Seems to me you are making a great fuss about a dress, 
Aunt Alberta/’ said Ida, philosophically. “ I heard Louisette 
say yesterday that you had fourteen ball dresses. I should 
think that you might at least find one fit to wear.” 

“ Louisette had better mind her own business,” said Alberta, 
sharply. “ How does your dress look, Gratia?” 

“It is beautiful!” Gratia returned quietly. For Colonel 
Falconer had left orders with Madame Finelli, the fashionable 
modiste , that his adopted daughter should have a wardrobe sup- 
plied her such as befitted a girl of sixteen, newly entering the 
gay world at Long Branch. 

“Show it to Aunt Alberta,” cried Ida, eagerly. “It is so 
lovely !” 

It was lovely — simple white lace, over dead white silk, the 
overskirt caught up in graceful folds by lilies of the valley, with 
polished green leaves half hiding the silvery bells, and a wreath 
of the same delicate white blossoms. Alberta surveyed it 
greedily. 

“ Finelli can trim exquisitely when she pleases,” she cried, 
with a sort of grudging enthusiasm. “That white silk would 
fit me exactly — I know it is just my pattern ! Gratia,” with an 
affectation of cordiality, “ why won’t you exchange, this once?’’ 

“ Exchange?” repeated Gratia, hardly catching her meaning 
at first. 

“Yes— you could wear the lemon crape — you are so much 
more slender than I am — and it really would be quite becoming 
to you. Do, and I’ll let you wear the set of oriental topazes. ” 

I do not want to wear the topazes, Alberta.” 

“ Of course you don’t,” cried Alberta, turning abruptly away. 


GRATIA S TRIALS. 


85 


“ Say at once that you don’t mean to oblige me, and be done 
with it !” 

“Oh, Alberta, it is not that !” said Gratia, rising and speak- 
ing in a stifled voice, as she laid her hand lightly on Alberta’s 
arm. “You are welcome to the dress. I don’t care whether 
I wear white or yellow. All I ask is that you will try to like 
me a little.” 

“ You’re a darling !” said Alberta, with a kiss that was like 
the peck of a bird’s beak. She had won her object, and that 
was all she cared for. Circumstances rendered it desirable that 
she should at least keep an outward show of affection and cor- 
dial feeling toward her brother’s adopted daughter ; but the 
pill, however gilded, became daily more crusted over with bit- 
terness. “And I dare say you can let out the seams of the 
crape dress, or something, and you’ve got one of those fortunate 
complexions which can wear anything.” 

In her secret heart Alberta thought she had achieved two 
objects in this exchange of ball dresses — secured an exquisite 
costume for herself and made over to Gratia, for this her first 
ball, a dress which would make her look like a fright. 

In this last amiable aspiration, however, she was disap- 
pointed. The lemon-colored crape, which would have been 
trying to most complexions, made Gratia look like a delicate 
wild flower in the sunshine. Following her own instinct of 
propriety, she wore no jewels, only a cluster of yellow rosebuds 
in her hair, and a bow of ribbon at her throat. 

“ Here are your gloves,” said Ida, “and here is your bou- 
quet and fan. Oh, Gratia, how I wish I were big enough to 
go to the ball, too I But I shall make Louisette take me to 
the windows so I can peep in, as we did that moonlight night, 
you know.” 

“ Pshaw 1” said Alberta. “Louisette has my laces to do 
up, and you had a great deal better go to bed.” 

“But I sha’n’t, though!” said Ida. “I couldn’t sleep, I 
have got so excited watching you and Gratia dress.” 


86 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


“ Shall I stay and sing you to sleep before I go, darling?” 
whispered Gratia. “ I would just as soon.” 

“You had a great deal better,” said Alberta, catching at the 
meaning of the whispered words, and eager to get a chance to 
enter the ball-room without her brother’s adopted child.” 

“Indeed, you shall not!’’ cried Ida. “I want to see you 
in the ball-room.” 

At this moment Robert Falconer sauntered into the room in 
faultless evening dress. 

“Almost ready, girls?” he said. “Upon my word” — with 
an admiring glance at Gratia — “that’s a dused pretty dress of 
yours, Gratia. Why don’t you ever pick out such a pretty 
color as that, Bertie ?” 

Ida burst out laughing. 

“ It’s Aunt Alberta’s dress,” she cried, “only she couldn’t 
wear it because it was too tight, and so Gratia exchanged with 
her.” 

“Very good-natured of Gratia, I’m sure,” said Robert, 
patronizingly. “She’s made a good thing by the exchange, 
I’m sure. “You’ll give me the first waltz, won’t you, 
Gratia ?” 

Gratia smiled and colored, till she looked more like a rose 
than ever. 

“ I do not know how to waltz,” said she. 

“The first quadrille, then. Come, is it a bargain ?” 

As they crossed the threshold of the brilliant ball-room, 
Gratia’s memory went back to the moonlight evening, scarcely 
six weeks since, when she and little Ida had looked in at the 
glittering scene, as if it were a pageant in which she never could 
hope to participate. Now how changed was everything ! With 
Gratia Kempfield, every faculty was sharpened by the peculiarity 
of the circumtances which surrounded her. She knew every 
advantage and disadvantage with which ^he was encompassed. 
When she had surveyed herself in the mirror that evening, she 
had been fully aware of her own rare, delicate beauty, and she 


OR ATI AS TRIALS. 


87 


had looked upon it for the moment not as rose and lily, and 
pure curve of cheek and lip, but as a key wherewith to unlock 
the golden gates of success. 

“Beauty has always swayed the world,” she murmured; 
“and I — what can I not accomplish if I am true to myself and 
to the one object of my life ?” 

There was a mournful worldliness in these thoughts, if one 
reflects that they surged through the bosom of a girl of sixteen ; 
but it must be borne in mind that Gratia Kempfield was older 
by far than her age in years. Self-dependence and trial had 
aged her in a proportion which figures can hardly express. 

Her first evening in society was brilliantly successful, not only 
from her grace, and beauty, and extreme youth, but from a sort 
of prestige which surrounded her The mystery which envel- 
oped the antecedents of Colonel Hugo Falconer's adopted child 
had given rise to all manner of vague rumors. There was a 
something romantic and removed from the humdrum course of 
every-day events about the whole matter that made Gratia Kemp- 
field — or Miss Falconer, as she was now called — an object of the 
warmest interest among the languid devotees of fashion, who 
so seldom found anything to be enthusiastic about. 

Therefore, upon this, her debut , her ball-card was full, and 
her smiles courted by every one ; and little Ida, whose bright 
face peeped in at the open window, was delighted to witness 
her adopted sister’s triumph. 

“Don’t she loook pretty, Louiselte ?” she cried, to Alberta’s 
French maid, who attended her. “ Hasn’t she got the sweetest 
face in all the room ? Aunt Alberta is pretty, too ; but some- 
how Aunt Alberta looks old and dried up beside Gratia.” 

“You had better not let your aunt hear that opinion,” said 
a voice behind her, and Ida felt Uncle Ralph’s hand upon her 
curls. 

“Uncle Ralph !” she exclaimed — “you here?” 

“And why not I as well as you, little Miss Curiosity?” he 
said, good-humoredly. 


88 


GBATIA'S TRIALS. 


“ /shouldn’t be here if I could go into the ball-room and 
dance,” said Ida. “See, Uncle Raph ! Doesn’t Gratia look 
beautiful ? Why don’t you go in and ask her to dance ? Do, 
Uncle Ralph.” 

“ Do you suppose she would leave all her gay young cavaliers 
to dance with a grim old bachelor like me, Puss ?” demanded 
Mr. Miller. 

“ I know she would,” nodded Ida ; “ because she likes you. 
I’ve heard her say so.” 

Mr. Miller puffed silently away, but he was not displeased at 
Ida’s naive speech, that was quite evident. 

“ Please , Uncle Ralph,” coaxed the child. 

“No, Puss, I’m too old and stout for that sort of thing,” 
said he, laughing. “ But perhaps I’ll take you girls for a nice 
long drive to-morrow, to take off the stamp of late hours. 
Carry your little lady off to bed now, Louisette ; she has been 
up long enough.” 

So Ida was borne off, vainly pleading for “just one little 
minute longer, ” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

DOMESTIC DISSENSIONS. 

But the cup of Gratia’s social triumph was not destined to be 
entirely unmixed with the gall of bitterness. 

The girls were out bathing one lovely morning. Ida in the 
charge of Louisette, who was a most careful and responsible 
woman, and Gratia and Alberta together. Miss Falconer did 
not like sea bathing, but she participated in it, simply because 
it was the fashion. 

“ One looks like a fright in these hideous straw-flats and oil- 
skin night-caps, and the figure of Venus de Medici herself 
would be swallowed up in a plaid flannel bathing suit.” 

“Oh, Alberta, said Gratia, innocently, “it is the most de- 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


89 


lightful thing in the world to me, to feel the great, cool waves 
wrapping themselves round me/’ 

“So you like it, Miss Gratia,” said Mr. Ardenham's voice, 
close to them. “ Don’t you want to venture out far enough to 
touch the post ?” 

“ Touching the post,” as Gratia knew, was considered quite 
a feat among the naiads who frequented the beach, and she her- 
self had more than once made her way out through the warring 
billows to lay her hand on the last post to which the rope was 
fastened. 

“ Yes,” she answered, unhesitatingly. 

“You will come too, Miss Falconer,” said Mr. Ardenham, 
but the acute ear of Alberta detected a difference in the tone in 
which he had addressed herself and Gratia. 

“Thank you,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders, “I 
have no particular wish to risk my life for the mere satisfaction 
of saying I have touched the post. ” 

“Come then,” said Mr. Ardenham ; and side by side he and 
Gratia ventured so far out into the ocean that Ida screamed 
aloud. 

Five minutes afterward Gratia came laughing up the beach, 
wringing the salt water and bits of floating sea-weed out of her 
hair, from which the oil-silk cap had escaped. 

“Where is Alberta?” she asked. 

“ Gone up to the hotel,” said Ida. 

Gratia Falconer, as we must now call her, looked lovelier 
than ever, as she came out of her room dressed in simple white 
muslin, with rose-colored ribbons run through every hem and 
puffing, and a knot of the same ribbon at her throat. 

Mrs. Falconer sat waiting for Robert to come to take them in 
to dinner. She looked up as Gratia approached. 

“Gratia,” she said, “Alberta thinks — and / think also — that 
it is my duty to speak to you.” 

“To speak to me, ma am?” Gratia repeated. “About 
what ?” 


90 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


“ Don’t use that odious word ‘ma’am/ ” Mrs. Falconer said, 
sharply. “If you must say anything, say ‘madam.’ One 
would think you never were going to forget that you had been 
a chambermaid !” 

Gratia blushed a hot, fiery scarlet, but she said nothing, and, 
after a momentary pause, Mrs. Falconer, satisfied with the visi- 
ble effect her envenomed arrow had produced, proceeded : 

“To warn you, I mean, against the flirtation you are carry- 
ing on with Mr. Ardenham. Everybody at the Branch is talk- 
ing about it !” 

Gratia opened her eyes in amazement. 

“Mrs. Falconer!” 

“You need not flare up about it, ’’said the lady, drawing 
herself more erect. “ I am only speaking for your own good.” 

“But, Mrs. Falconer, I never dreamed of such a thing!” 

“ Nonsense !” interposed Alberta. “What were you doing 
in the starlight on the beach last night? — what were you doing 
when you must needs make a spectacle of yourself by ‘ touch- 
ing the post’ this very morning?” 

“Not flirting!” Gratia cried, vehemently. 

“It looks to me very like it,” said Alberta, tossing her 
head. 

“But why should I flirt with him?” persisted innocent 
Gratia. “ I do not care for him.” 

And then she colored at the sound of her own words. 

“It is well to have a good opinion of one’s self,” said Mrs. 
Falconer, dryly. “Most young ladies would consider Mr. 
Ardenham a remarkably good match.” 

“ I don’t mean that,” said Gratia, more and more embar- 
rassed. “ I only mean ” 

At this moment a servant brought in a penciled card. 

“ Mr. Ardenham’s compliments to Miss Gratia Falconer, and would 
be happy to have the pleasure of driving her out this afternoon, at five 
o’clock.” 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


91 


“There!” cried Alberta, who had deciphered the message 
over Gratia’s shoulder. “ I told you so !” 

“What shall I say?” asked Gratia, irresolutely. “I do not 
see how I can avoid going.” 

“It’s easy enough, if you choose,” said Alberta. “Tell him 
jou have another engagement.” 

“ But it would not be true.” 

“What nonsense !” exclaimed Mrs. Falconer, angrily. 

“And why should I decline a pleasant drive with Mr. Arden- 
ham ?” quietly persisted Gratia, who was beginning, in some 
measure, to rally herself from the unexpected attack which had 
been made upon her. 

“For no reason at all,” said Mrs. Falconer, her voice quiver- 
ing with passion. “Of course there can be no harm in boldly 
deluding another girl’s lover ; it is done every day, I believe, 
and why not by you as veil as any one else?” 

“ Whose lover?” asked Gratia, fixing her clear hazel eyes full 
on the flushed face of the indignant matron. 

“Alberta's !” flashed back Mrs. Falconer. 

“Mamma!” interposed the young lady, half vexed, half 
pleased. 

“ If that is the case,” said Gratia, quietly, “matters are differ- 
ent. I will decline Mr. Ardenham’s invitation in Alberta’s favor. ” 

“You will do nothing of the sort !” exclaimed Alberta, un- 
certain whether Gratia was sarcastic or a fool. “Gratia Kemp- 
field, if you dare ” 

“I beg your pardon,” said Gratia, calmly; “my name is 
Falconer.” 

Alberta dared not resent the words as she would have liked. 
She burst into angry tears. 

‘Perhaps Miss Falconer will be so good as to leave us now,” 
said the elder lady, frigidly. 

And Gratia obeyed, her cheeks aflame, and her heart angrily 
throbbing. 

Robert Falconer met her on the threshold. 


92 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


“ By Jove, Gratia I” he cried, admiringly surveying her, “you 
ought always to wear white and pink ; you look exactly like an 
apple-blossom. Don’t try to rush by me,” intercepting her 
with an outstretched hand. “I mean to take you into dinner, 
just for the fun of making all the other fellows envious. Come, 
mother. Bertie, come.” 

But the door was bolted, and Mrs. Falconer’s sharp voice 
called out : 

“We are not ready yet.” 

“Then I shall go in with Gratia, and you can come in at 
your leisure,” observed the dutiful son. 

And away he went, drawing Gratia’s reluctant arm through 
his own. 

Mrs. Falconer embraced the first opportunity to remonstrate 
with her son. 

“ Robert, ” said she, “you must be a little more circum- 
spect. ” 

“Much obliged to you, mother,” said the young man, in- 
differently. “But why, may I make bold to ask ?” 

“People are beginning to make remarks about you and 
Gratia. ” 

“Who?” asked Robert, languidly. 

“Everybody !” was the evasive answer. 

“Everybody gives me credit, then, for remarkably good 
taste,” said Mr. Falconer, complacently stroking his light mus- 
tache. “She is the prettiest girl at the Branch.” 

“Robert, you are not serious?” 

“Never was more so in my life.” 

“But she has not a penny besides what Hugo sees fit to 
allow her ; and it is imperatively necessary, as you yourself 
know ” 

“That I should marry rich. My dear mother, do you take 
me for an absolute fool ? Can’t a fellow admire a pretty girl 
without marrying her ?” 

Mrs. Falconer was somewhat relieved at this view of the 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


93 


affair ; but all enjoyment of the season at Long Branch was 
over, so far as she was concerned. 

Alberta’s star of bellehood had nearly set, or, if it still shone, 
gave forth so feeble a glimmer that no satisfaction could be 
thereby obtained. All the bouquets, cards, and invitations to 
drive, ride, or walk, were for “Miss Gratia Falconer” now, 
instead of “Miss Falconer,” as of old. Alberta, forced un- 
willingly into a sort of secondary position, began to weary of 
the sea-side gayeties, and to persecute Uncle Ralph to issue the 
fiat for the return to the city. 

“It shall be as Ida says,” said Mr. Miller, patting the little 
girl’s curly head. 

“ I’m sure the sea-side air is not doing Ida any good,” said 
Mrs. Falconer. “ She looks paler and thinner than she did 
when her papa went away.” 

“ How is it, Puss ?” asked Uncle Ralph. “Shall it be go, 
or stay?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Ida, fixing her great black eyes gravely 
on space. “What do you say, Gratia ?” 

“I should like to return to New York, for my part,” said 
Gratia, quietly. 

“'Then we will go back on Monday — that will be the middle 
of September,” said Mr. Miller. 

So, to Mrs. Falconer’s intense disgust, Gratia became the 
arbitress in this question, as in so many others. 

“ But we can easily teach her to find and keep her proper 
place when once we are in our own home,” said Alberta, con- 
solingly. 


94 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

UNCLE RALPH INTERFERES. 

Mr. Ralph Miller’s city residence on Fifth avenue, which 
Miss Falconer called by a species of poetical license “our own 
home,” was a superb brown-stone mansion in the center of one 
of the most imposing blocks on the avenue — a place splendid 
beyond Gratia’s most exalted anticipations. 

For Mr. Miller was rich, and wealth, as we all know, can 
command everything — but happiness. But Uncle Ralph was 
happy, too, in his odd, cynical sort of way. He tolerated Mrs. 
Falconer simply because she was his sister ; he despised 
Alberta’s schemes and maneuverings, which were entirely trans- 
parent to him, and he disliked Robert’s indolence and dissi- 
pated habits with equal heartiness. He was fond of Colonel 
Falconer, who, at he was wont to say, “was the only one of 
the tribe worth a copper and little Ida was the darling of his 
heart. 

To Gratia this new life was fascinating beyond description — 
the drives among the autumn glories of the Central Park, the 
morning saunterings among the dazzling bazaars on Broadway, 
and afternoon lingerings among picture-galleries and artists’ 
studios, the rounds of visits, in which Ida and Uncle Ralph both 
insisted on Gratia being included. 

In the meantime, she did not neglect her opportunities. She 
read a certain number of hours every day, for she was resolved 
to cultivate, as much as possible, the treasures of her brain and 
her intellect. She practiced diligently, under the instruction 
of Ida’s music teacher, and devoted herself enthusiastically to 
the study of the French and German languages. 

“Very sensible, I am sure,” said Alberta, shrugging her 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


95 


shoulders, as she noted Gratia’s diligence. “ I suppose you are 
preparing yourself for a governess.” 

Gratia smiled. She was learning not easily to be annoyed. 

“There is no harm in being prepared for any situation in this 
world,” she said, quietly. 

“It’s no such thing!” cried Ida, indignantly. “She’s not 
going to be a governess. She’s to stay and be my Gratia. ” 

And even Alberta could not find it in her heart to check the 
child. 

In spite of Long Branch and sea-bathing, in spite of con- 
stant watching and the benefit of the best medical advice that 
New York could afford, Ida’s health was visibly failing. There 
was no positive ailment, but her mother had fallen a victim to 
consumption, and it was but too evident that the beautiful child 
had inherited the seeds of the fell disease. There was nothing 
to warrant recalling her father from Europe, yet every one felt 
as if little Ida was but a sojourner in their midst for a time — no 
one could say how brief. 

But in proportion to Ida’s devotion, the antipathy of Mrs. 
Falconer and Alberta seemed to increase, and Mrs. Falconer 
determined, as she expressed it, that “Gratia shall queen it 
over us no longer. I shall speak to my brother. ” 

“Do, mamma,” urged Alberta; “and let it be at once. 
New Year’s Day comes very soon ; and, tolerant though we all 
are of my uncle’s wishes, I do not think I can bring myself to 
receive my friends, with that simpering girl beside me.” 

That very evening Mrs. Falconer sought her brother in his 
library, after dinner, a time when she well knew he would most 
likefy be at leisure. 

Mr. Miller was sitting in an easy-chair, his legs comfortably 
stretched out before the fire, and his slippered feet crossed, while 
a newspaper lay in his lap. He was not reading, however, as 
his sister entered the room — only meditating. 

“ I am glad you are alone, Ralph,” said his sister ; “I wanted 
to have a conversation with you.” 


96 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


“Ah!” said the old gentleman, elevating his shaggy eye- 
brows. “Sit down, Julia. Now, what is it about? Ida is no 
worse, I hope ?” 

“Ida is as well as usual,” said Mrs. Falconer, clearing her 
throat, and finding it difficult to begin. “But I wanted to 
speak to you about — about Gratia Kempfield.” 

“I thought Hugo had decided that for the future she was to 
be called Gratia Falconer ?” said Mr. Miller, quietly. 

“ Hugo acted like a fool, as he always does when he allows 
himself to be carried away by his feelings,” said his mother, 
tartly. “ I do not think the whole family should be incon- 
venienced and placed in a fale position by his caprice.” 

“Well?” 

“And I have concluded to appeal to your better sense and 
maturer consideration, Ralph,” smoothly went on Mrs. 
Falconer. “I am sure you must see at a glance how much 
wiser it would be to put the girl in her proper place. She is 
too independent and conceited for anything. Alberta and I 
have borne it as long as we possibly could — in fact, until for- 
bearance has ceased to be a virtue — and we are resolved to ask 
you to release us from the uncomfortable position we are now 
compelled to occupy.” 

“Hear! hear!” cried Uncle Ralph. “Upon my word, 
Julia, you would have made a capital public speaker. 

“Am I not right?” said Mrs. Falconer, somewhat annoyed. 

“I don’t say you are not ; go on.” 

“ I would not counsel you to turn her adrift on the world,” 
said Mrs. Falconer, with an air of mild toleration. “That 
would scarcely be right, though she has deserved even severer 
treatment than this. ” 

“ I don’t think I quite understand what her crime has been,” 
interposed Mr. Miller. 

“We are not speaking of crimes,” said Mrs. Falconer, 
sharply. “I only say that a mistake has been made in lifting 
Gratia out of her proper position into one which is so much 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


97 


higher as to turn her silly head ; and my advice is to restore 
her to her natural sphere. I would counsel that she be taught 
dressmaking, millinery, photograph-coloring, or some other 
good trade. She might even become a tolerable nursery gov- 
erness, with a little training.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” said Uncle Ralph. “Or a companion 
to some respectable elderly lady.” 

“ To be sure. I knew you would see it in this light,” said 
Mrs. Falconer, much relieved. “You see, I lack the proper 
authority to act in opposition to Hugo’s wishes ; but as the 
house is yours ” 

“Certainly — of course,” said Uncle Ralph, laying down the 
paper-cutter. “You wish me to interfere.” 

“That is exactly it.” 

“Very well,” said Mr. Miller. “I will speak to Gratia.” 

“Thank you, brother,” said Mrs. Falconer, trying to con- 
ceal her elation by a studied softness of manner. “And per- 
haps you had better act as promptly as possible, for ” 

“Yes, yes,” said Uncle Ralph. “ I see. No time shall be 
lost.” 

Mrs. Falconer’s rich silk dress had scarcely rustled away 
down stairs, before another step sounded on the threshold — 
that of Bob Falconer. 

“I won’t keep you long,” began Bob, nervously. “The 
fact is, uncle, I — I only want to ask jou if you could accom- 
modate me with a little loan, just for a day or two.” 

“Another little loan?” echoed his uncle, with a meaning 
accent on the first word. 

“You see, Uncle Ralph, there are so many expenses com- 
ing on a young fellow about town,” he pleaded, “and 
when a man has no settled income, and is in no busi- 
ness ” 

“And whose fault is it that you are in no business?” said 
Uncle Ralph, rather shortly. “I am sure I have tried often 
enough to induce you to give up this miserable, indolent life 


98 OB ATI A' S TRIALS. 

of yours, and go honestly to work, as God intended every 
man should do. And as for lending you more money— or 
giving it to you, for that is about what it amounts to— I 
shall do nothing of the sort. If you want money, do as I 
do, and as your brother Hugo does— work for it. I shall 
settle no more bills of your contraction !” 

“But, uncle, ” stammered Mr. Robert Falconer, “you 
wouldn’t see a fellow locked up ?” 

“Better locked up than at large, if this is the way you mean 
to conduct yourself/’ said Uncle Ralph, testily. 

Robert pulled angrily at his mustache, and his eyes sparkled 
sullenly under their long, fair lashes. 

“ But,” he began. 

Mr. Miller interrupted him. 

“Will you have the goodness to leave the room?” he said, 
imperiously. “I would like to be alone for a little while.” 

Robert rose and skulked, rather than walked, out of the 
room. On the threshold he passed a young man. 

“Mr. Miller?” said the new-comer, interrogatively. 

“ Yes — come in !” said Uncle Ralph, beginning to be a little 
out of patience. 

“It’s a bill, sir, from Scheik & Maurice’s,” said the clerk, 
naming a fashionable millinery patronized by Mrs. Falconer 
and her daughter. “Madame Maurice, sir, she ain’t seen a 
red cent o’ money these eight months — and four hundred and 
seventy-five dollars owing/sir, and Miss Alberta promising and 
promising, as soon as ever she could get the money from her 
uncle. So Madame Maurice, sir, she says better go to head- 
quarters at once, so here I be, sir, hoping no offense.” 

“ Let me see your bill,” said Mr. Miller. 

He glanced at the items — it was the very bill, a copy of 
which Alberta had shown him six weeks ago, with a piteous 
entreaty for money. He had given her five hundred dollars, 
expressing at the same time his disapproval of allowing accounts 
to stand so long unsettled, and she had solemnly promised that 


GRATIA S TRIALS. 


99 


it should not again occur. His brow clouded darkly at this 
evidence of his niece’s duplicity. 

“I will call at Scheik & Maurice’s to-morrow/’ he said. 

The clerk bowed and withdrew. 

“A nice set of harpies are these who would fain prey upon 
me !” said he, walking irritably up and down the room. “ De- 
ceit, double-dealing, and a rapacity which grows in proportion 
to what it feeds on. Were I a poor man, they would not so 
much as give me the crumbs that fell from their table, and yet 
they imagine I am fool enough not to penetrate their shallow 
hypocrisy. But I believe I shall manage to outwit them all yet. 
It is only making up my mind to a decisive step a little sooner 
than I should otherwise have done. I was resolved before, now 
the resolution is sealed.” 

He rang the bell shortly. Scipio came to the door. 

“Ask Miss Gratis if she will be so kind as to come to me 
a few minutes in the library.” 

Scipio walked gravely away. Mr. Miller stood gazing into 
the fire. 

“ It may as well be now as ev^r,” he said to himself. “I 
wonder what she will say.” 

Mrs. Falconer’s heart beat high with gratification as from the 
room beyond she heard the message given by Scipio to the 
young girl who was, metaphorically speaking, the thorn in her 
side. 

“ Really,” she whispered to Alberta. “ I didn’t expect such 
good luck. He told me he would speak to her, but I never 
thought he would act so promptly on my advice. But Ralph 
has a deal of solid, practical good sense, if only he chooses to 
use it.” 

“You sent for me, sir?” said Gratia, as she came into the 
library. 

“I did send for you, Gratia, said Mr. Miller, moving for- 
ward a chair, which Gratia declined by a negative motion of her 
head. “Iam going to astonish you very much.” 


100 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


“I am not easily astonished, sir,” said Gratia, smiling 
faintly ; “and I believe I can anticipate what you are going to 
say to me. ” 

“Ah?" 

“I have heard one or two things spoken by Mrs. and Miss 
Falconer ; and Ida has told me others, which lead me to expect 
a dismissal from this house," said Gratia, speaking firmly and 
quickly, although in a low voice. 

“And what should you think of such a proceeding on my 
part?" asked Mr. Miller, with an ]odd sort of smile hovering 
about his lips. 

“I should accept it, sir, without remonstrance, dearly as I 
love Ida and happy as I have been in the position of Colonel 
Falconer’s adopted daughter. You have been kind to me be- 
yond all I had any right to expect — you have extended to me a 
home when I was almost homeless — and I shall always be 
deeply grateful to you for those things, whatever course you 
may think proper to adopt for the future. " 

“Well said, my dear," said Uncle Ralph, “and I admire 
your spirit and temper. But, Gratia, you have misinterpreted 
my motive in sending for you to-night. " 

She looked up, her soft eyes filled with questioning surprise. 
Uncle Ralph went on : 

“lam not going to turn you out of doors, my little Gratia," 
he said, taking her white, warm hand in his ; “I am going to 
ask you to become my wife 1" 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE DAWN OF FORTUNE. 

For an instant Gratia stood pale and trembling, scarcely able 
to comprehend the full import of the words that had been 
spoken to her ; the next minute the rich, rosy blood flew 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


101 


back to her cheeks, and a bright, exultant fire flashed into 
her eyes. 

“Mr. Miller, you are not trifling with me,” she pleaded. 
“Remember, I am a homeless, motherless girl, and my position 
alone should exempt me from such cruel jokes.” 

He drew her gently toward him. 

“I am not trifling at all, Gratia,” he said. “Am I in any 
way set apart from the rest of mankind that I should not marry, 
like them ? I have lived a bachelor to the age of fifty-six years ; 
if in the fifty-seventh I chance to change my mind, is it any 
man’s business save mine ? I have elected you to be my wife, 
my dear little girl ; all that is lacking is your consent. Yes or 
no, Gratia'? I am a business man, you see,” he added, smiling 
to conceal his own nervousness, “and accustomed to straight- 
forward transactions. To be sure, I am many years older than 
you, but I have money and a home to offer you as an equiva- 
lent for your youth and loveliness. The world will not call it 
an unequal bargain. I have learned to love and respect you, 
in all these weeks of your trial and endurance, and if you con- 
sent to give yourself to me, I will strive that you shall not 
regret it. Gratia, will you marry me?” 

Had he asked her, “Gratia, do you love me?” she could not 
have answered him satisfactorily. But as it was, she spoke the 
word “Yes,” and placed her hand trustingly in his. 

“ My darling,” he whispered, lowering his voice to a tone of 
deep tenderness she never before had heard in its accent, “it 
shall be the study of my life to make you happy. The ‘ old 
man's darling' shall never repent the choice she has made. 
Now come with me.” 

“Where?” 

“To tell those who are so interested in your welfare,” he 
said, smiling roguishly. “Our engagement must be a short 
one, Gratia. I am not a young man, with years to throw away, 
and the sooner matters are adjusted on their proper footing, 
the better." 


102 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


And he drew her arm resolutely through his, and led her 
down stairs to the drawing-room before she could remonstrate. 

The suite of apartments was lighted and thrown open for 
evening callers. Mrs. Falconer sat in a low fauteuil , with a 
book of prints in her lap, which Ida was eagerly examining. 
Robert stood by the carved marble mantel, sullenly looking 
over the evening paper, and Alberta was reading a novel. All 
four glanced up in some surprise as Mr. Miller entered the 
apartment, with his lovely young companion leaning on his 
arm. 

“Julia,” he said, turning to his sister, “you requested me 
to speak to Gratia, and I have done so. Her answer has been 
quite satisfactory. Let me have the pleasure of introducing 
to you my promised wife, and the future mistress of this 
mansion.” 

There was an instant’s dead silence in the room, and then 
Mrs. Falconer started up, exclaiming huskily : 

“ It can’t be ! It isn’t possible ! Gratia Kempfield your 
promised wife — the bold, presuming ” 

“Stop !” roared Uncle Ralph, in a voice of thunder. “An- 
other word like that, Julia Falconer, and I will never look upon 
your face again. Remember, you are speaking of the girl who 
is nearest and dearest to me in all the world.” 

“Oh, Gratia, I am so glad,” cried Ida, hurrying to her 
adopted sister and nestling in her arms. “Uncle Ralph, she 
is the sweetest girl that ever breathed. Papa will be so 
pleased !” 

Alberta had been silent, while the varying color in her 
cheek, and the quick panting way in which she drew her 
breath, evinced the inward turbulence of her emotions. 

“I congratulate my new aunt,” she said, scarcely trying 
to conceal the irony of her tone. “This is promotion, in- 
deed, for the chambermaid at the Long Branch Hotel !” 

Mr. Miller was about to reply indignantly, when Gratia put 
her hand softly over his lips. 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


103 


“What she says is quite true/’ she said, gently; “and it 
should not anger you any more than it does me. Thank you 
for your congratulations, Alberta. May I go up stairs now, 
sir?" to Mr. Miller. “ I am so bewildered and taken by sur- 
prise, that my head begins to ache a little, and I would prefer 
to spend the rest of the evening alone. ” 

Ralph Miller led her to the door, and dismissed her with a 
smile and a gentle word, and when she was gone, he turned to 
the amazed circle in the drawing-room. 

“I have but one word to say to you all," he said, uncon- 
sciously pressing the little hand that Ida stole into his. 
“ Mrs. Ralph Miller cannot possibly be more worthy of respect 
and esteem than was Gratia Kempfield, but she will have this 
advantage : / shall exact it in her behalf. Any one who ven- 
tures hereafter to annoy or insult her is no longer a member of 
my household." 

And Uncle Ralph went back to his library. He met Scipio 
in the hall. 

“ Just cornin’ to look for you, massa," said the black man. 
“Telegram come — man’s a-waitin’ for answer.” 

And he placed a sealed envelope in his master’s hand. 

Mr. Miller’s face instinctively fell as he perused its contents — 
it was a summons to proceed at once to Boston, where affairs 
intimately connected with his banking business would require 
his presence for three days at least. 

“ How provoking !" muttered Mr. Miller to himself. “ Why 
could not these tangles happen when Hugo is at home ? Well, 
after all, it might be worse. Three or four days are not three 
or four weeks, and just as soon as I return, the preparations for 
my marriage shall be hurried on at once." 

And Gratia Kempfield, sitting up stairs in her room, vainly 
trying to realize in her own mind the splendor of the tide of 
good fortune that was rolling toward her, received a note from 
her affianced husband, solemnly delivered by the hand of Scipio, 
half an hour later. 


104 


GRATIA 3 TRIALS. 


“My Darling,” it ran, “do not be surprised and offended if I tell 
you that I must leave you for a few days— four, at the farthest. Impera- 
tive business calls me to Boston, but I shall count every moment an hour 
until I can be with my dear little girl-bride again. Christmas Day is a 
week from to-morrow ; the new year must not be a month old before I 
call you my own in very truth. Turn that over in your mind while I am 
gone. I shall be on my way to-morrow morning long before you have 
wakened from the sweet dreams that I pray may haunt your pillow. Ro 
mantic talk this, you will say, for an old man, but love makes one young 
again. And as I will not again ask to see you this evening, after the ex- 
citement and agitation you have been through, I take this way of saying 
good-by. Yours, devotedly, R. M.” 

Gratia let the letter fall into her lap with almost a sensation 
of relief. 

“Four days,” she murmured to herself — “four days of re- 
prieve — four days all to myself! It is what I most longed for 
in all the world. I shall have the opportunity now to go to 
Raymond and tell him what is in store for him. Perhaps I may 
even bring him back with me ; but no, it were better to wait 
until my fortunes are assured beyond the reach of any change. 
But I may divulge to him the bright secret of our coming 
life.” 

And Gratia’s countenance flushed and grew radiant as she 
pictured to herself little Raymond’s joy in again seeing her. 

“Iam selling myself for a price,” she thought, “but it is a 
price worth the ransom. ” 

She breakfasted in her own room the next morning. The 
servants, who had already contrived to possess themselves of the 
fact that a change was meditated in the household, were doubly 
obsequious in her service and eager to anticipate her com- 
mands. 

“Scipio,” said Miss Falconer, sharply, as she poured out 
her second cup of strong coffee, “perhaps you had better step 
up to Miss Gratia’s room and tell her breakfast is nearly half 
over. ” 

“Miss Gratia breakfasts in her own room dis mornin', 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


105 


ma’am, ” said Scipio, importantly. “Jane, she done took up 
de chocolate and br'iled chicken half an hour ago.” 

Alberta looked at her mother. 

“So she has begun to put on airs already,” she said, con- 
temptuously, quite regardless of the presence of Scipio, who 
stood solemnly behind the elderly lady’s chair. “There will be 
no living in the house with her after another month.” 

“ It cannot be helped,” said Mrs. Falconer, dejectedly. 

“At all events,” said Alberta, rising, “I shall take the liberty 
to intrude upon her solitude.” 

She swept out of the room, and hurried up stairs, tapping 
softly at the panels of Gratia’s door. 

“Come in,” was the response, and she entered. 

But when she saw Gratia standing in the middle of the room, 
dressed in a plain black silk suit, with a waterproof cloak en- 
veloping her whole person, she could not but start back, with 
all the civilly cutting speeches she had intended to make quite 
driven out of her head. 

“You are going away?” she cried. 

“Yes,” was the briefly spoken reply. 

“ Where ?” 

“To visit a friend,” Gratia answered, after a moment’s hesi- 
tation. 

Alberta bit her lip ; she felt the implied reserve. 

“Does my uncle know of this?” 

“Whether he does or not will not affect my purpose,” Gra- 
tia replied, coldly. 

A polite way of telling me that it is none of my business,” 
said Alberta, with a forced laugh. “But I only came up to 
express my hopes that illness was not the cause of your absence 
this morning from table.” 

“ I preferred to breakfast in my room,” said Gratia, evasively. 

“I am going out shopping this morning,” went on Alberta. 
"Is there anything I can have the pleasure of doing for you ?” 

“Nothing, I thank you.” 


106 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


“Wouldn't you like the carriage to take you to your — 
friend’s house ? I can wait your pleasure.” 

“You need not inconvenience yourself,” said Gratia, com- 
posedly. “I will go in a hack, which I have already sent 
for. ” 

“In that case there is nothing more to be said,” retorted 
Miss Falconer ; but there was a light in her eyes which, had 
Gratia taken the trouble to interpret the sign, might have bid- 
den her beware. “Good-morning.” 

She courtesied low, and left the apartment, walking slowly 
until she had reached the end of the carpeted corridor. 
Then she accelerated her speed, and hastened breathlessly into 
her mother’s room, jerking the bell-rope as she did so. 

“Louisette !” she cried; “run and get me a cab — quick ! 
Let it wait at the corner of the street !” 

Mrs. Falconer looked up in surprise as her daughter unbut- 
toned the jet knobs of her scarlet cashmere morning dress and 
began to change it for a plain black alpaca, which she had only 
the day before avowed her intention of giving to Louisette. 

“Alberta,” she exclaimed, what is the matter? Where are 
you going?” 

“To follow my aunt — that is, to — to — wherever she goes — 
to make what discoveries I can, for Uncle Ralph’s future bene- 
fit, and my own edification.” 

And she related to her mother what she had seen and heard 
in Gratia’s room. 

“ It looks suspicious, to say the least of it, this sudden jour- 
ney, so soon after engagement, and following directly on Uncle 
Ralph’s absence,” she said ; “and I mean to be at the bottom 
of the mystery !” 

“Alberta, tell me what you suspect?” cried Mrs. Falconer. 

“Mamma, I don’t know myself; another lover, perhaps ; a 
husband, for aught I know. Where there is something to con- 
ceal, there is generally something to regret. I asked Gratia a 
question or two about her goings and comings, and she as good 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


107 


as told me it was none of my business. She will find that I 
mean to make it such.” 

“ But, Alberta ” 

“Don’t bother me with questions, mamma,” sharply inter- 
posed the dutiful daughter. “There she goes now, and I shall 
follow her.” 

“ But you can tell me how long you will be gone?” 

“As long as she is — neither more nor less !” 

As Alberta spoke she ran down stairs. And as the hack 
containing Gratia Kempfield turned the corner of the street, a 
light cab whirled after it. 

Miss Falconer had managed matters most adroitly. Not a 
moment of time was to be lost ; and she had lost none. 


CHAPTER XX. 

GRATIA AND HER BROTHER. 

The snow lay white and spotless on the fields that winter day, 
with a red glow shining over it from the setting sun, as Gratia 
Kempfield once more walked up the old familiar lane. 

“What will they say to me?” she asked herself. “How 
shall I answer them ? What will Raymond be doing when I 
see him first?” 

She had often pictured to herself the glad rapture of this 
meeting, but now that it was so close at hand, her heart stood 
still with an awe which no words can express. 

Old Leo, the farm dog, heard her light footstep on the 
crusted snow, and came feebly out of his kennel wagging his 
bushy tail, his menacing bark changed to a tremulous whine 
of canine greeting. He jumped up on her, and strove to lick 
her gloved hands. 

“ Down, old Leo !” she said, softly patting his head. “Poor 
dog, good dog, you at least know me again — -you are glad to 
welcome me home.” 


108 


GRATIA' S TRIALS . 


She lifted the latch of the kitchen door. All there was as if 
she had left it but an hour ago. 

“They are gone out somewhere to spend the afternoon/’ 
said Gratia to herself. “ All the better ; they never took Ray- 
mond with them. He has gone up to his room for some- 
thing.” 

She had just laid her hand on the latch of the stair-way 
door, when the door directly opposite was opened, and Mrs. 
Playfair came into the room, carrying a tin saucepan. She 
started so violently that she had nearly dropped her utensil at 
the sight of a stranger. 

“Mr. Kempfield and his wife are gone to Wingley,” she 
saifl, recovering herself in some degree. “I expect ’em back 
every minute.” 

“Where is Raymond?” asked Gratia, striving to overcome 
a huskiness in her voice, for there was some indefinable aspect 
about Mrs. Playfair, her dress and manner, that filled her mind 
with fear. 

“Well, I declare!” said Mrs. Playfair, “if it isn’t Gratia!” 

“Yes, it is I,” said Gratia. “Where is my brother, Mrs. 
Playfair?” 

“Well, there !” again ejaculated Mrs. Playfair. “ Hain’t you 
heerd ? But I might ha’ knowed you hadn’t, or you’d ha’ been 
here afore. ” 

“ Heard what? Why don’t you answer me, Mrs. Playfair?” 

Gratia had turned very white; a chill dew oozed out through 
the pores of her skin, and her knees seemed losing all strength 
to support her. By way of reply, the good-hearted neighbor 
opened the door of the room in which her mother had died, 
and beckoned to Gratia to cross the hall and enter. 

A fire blazed on the hearth, and there was the indescribable 
smell of a sick-room pervading the atmosphere. These two 
things Gratia noted before her bewildered eyes caught sight of 
the little pale, pinched face among the pillows and the trans- 
parent hands lying on the spread. 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


109 


Yes, it was little Raymond ; but how changed — how altered ! 
The yellow curls still shadowed his forehead, but the blue veins 
showed plainly through the pallid skin ; the blue eyes shone 
with the fire that is reflected only from another world, and the 
cheeks were hollow and sunken. 

“ Raymond ! ’ she cried, in a gasping, choked voice, “oh, 
Raymond !” 

And then she fell sobbing on her knees beside the bed. It 
was too much. 

“I knew you would come, sister,” said the child, putting his 
thin arms round her neck. 

Child and woman seemed for the moment to have changed 
places. She was excited, wild, agonized with the impending 
defeat of all her fondest plans — that downfall of the castle in 
the air she had built with such fond yearnings, such a limit- 
less depth of love ! But little Raymond stood too near the 
shores of the other world to feel the shocks and thrillings of 
this. All these things were past for him. 

“Did they tell you I was going to die, Gratia?” said the 
little fellow, wistfully stroking the cheeks down which the scald- 
ing tears were running. “Don’t cry, sister. I am going to 
be with my mamma. I prayed God to let me live until Christ- 
mas, because I knew you would come back to me then.” 

Gratia lifted her wet, wild eyes to his face. 

“Raymond! Raymond! you musn’t die. Oh, darling, I 
cannot let you die now I I have come to take you home with 

me to such a home as we used to talk about, dear, when all 

should be sunshine and brightness.” 

He looked smilingly into her face. 

“ I would rather go to heaven, sister, because you see, mam- 
ma is there waiting for me. And you will come too, by and 
by. Let me lie down now, for I am tired — but don’t you let 
go of my hand, Gratia !” 

The poor girl’s pleading eyes sought the face of the kind 


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nurse who stood beside the bed weeping heartily for company. 

“ Must this be so?” she syllabled, hoarsely, and Mrs. Play- 
fair nodded her head and cried harder than ever. 

“It’s her fault, every bit of it,” whispered Mrs. Playfair. 
“ She’s done it, with her pickings and her naggings, and her 
cruel treatment, and if Ira Kempfield hadn’t been blinder than 
a mole, he’d a seen how it all was going to end ! I never was 
so mistook about a human creatur in all my life as I was about 
that Almira Bassett ! And now she’s took your father off to 
Wingley this afternoon to buy her a new winter cloak. I told 
him he’d better stay to hum with the boy that mightn’t be 
spared to him for long, but she came serpenting round, with 
her soft voice and her smooth ways, and coaxed him to believe 
we was all in a plot to deceive him and alarm him without 
cause. And he’s gone off, and P hope to the Lord he mayn’t 
be sorry for it, that all !” 

And Mrs. Playfair left off crying and talking to untie the 
bonnet strings that seemed to oppress Gratia’s breathing, as 
she stood there, pale and silent, still holding little Raymond’s 
hand. 

“Better set down, you won’t disturb him,” she said paren- 
thetically. “Well, you see the way of it was this. He’s been 
poorly all the fall, with a real sharp attack of croup every now 
and then. It does seem as if a blind man blight ha’ foreseen 
what was coming ; but she set out there wan’t nothin’ the mat- 
ter with him but just idleness and laziness, and somehow she 

made Ira Kempfield believe black was white and white black 

and she wouldn’t let him send for a doctor till all the neigh- 
bors was up in arms about it. She was all for taking care of 
him herself, when things got to the worst, but says I to Phebe 
Ann, ‘I knowed Mary Kempfield, that boy’s mother, when she 
first come here to live, fresh as a daisy — yes, and I laid her out, 
too, and I ain’t goin’ to see her motherless boy want for what 
care/ can give him !’ So Ira he couldn’t say ‘no ’when I 
come and asked him up and down, and Raymond he begged 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS, 


111 


too. ‘ Please, father/ say he, 4 let Mrs. Playfair come and take 
care of me ; I won't trouble you long/ 

“I declare, 'twas enough to melt a heart o’ stone, and mine 
ain't made o' no such materials, whatever Mrs. Almira Kemp- 
field’s may be. I tell you, she looked black as a thunder-cloud 
at me, and had plenty to say about meddlers and that sort of 
thing, but I wasn’t goin’ to mind it — not I. I’d a-writ to you 
if I’d knowed where on earth to direct, for Raymond kept 
talkin’ about you the whole time. But you hadn’t left no clew, 
and he stood out you’d be here before Christmas. I ain’t no 
spiritualist,” added the good lady, blowing her nose violently, 
‘‘but I do believe his dead mother told him things we didn’t 
know. And your father, he wouldn’t take no means to hunt 
you up. ‘She’s made her bed,’ says he, with that Almira at 
his elbow, ‘now let her lay on it.’ And he swears he’ll never 
speak to you again.” 

“I shall not ask him to,” said Gratia, quietly. “I shall 
take Raymond away with me as soon as ” 

“Hush, hush, child,” said Mrs. Playfair, “and leave the 
Lord’s doin’s in His own hands. Raymond ’ll never be took 
away from here till they take him in his coffin, dear little lamb, 
with his pretty hands folded on his breast. There — he's 
a-wakin’ up !” 

“I’ve been dreaming, Mrs. Playfair,” said he, gazing wistfully 
through the growing dusk. “ I dreamed Gratia was back here. 
It’s most Christmas now, ain’t it ?” 

“I am here, darling !” 

Gratia stepped forward and folded the little, frail form in her 
arms. 

“Oh, Raymond, Raymond! Why did I ever leave you!" 

“I knew you would come,” softly reiterated the child. “ I 
wanted you so much when my head ached, to hold me against 
your shoulder and sing to me, as you used to sing Sunday 
evenings. Don't you remember, Gratia ? There- so / and 


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he nestled close within her passionate embrace. “Now sing 
‘Jesus, lover of my soul’ again." 

“I cannot, Raymond," she faltered. 

“Just once, Gratia. Nobody sings it as you used to do." 

“And that’s true!" interpolated Mrs. Playfair, in a sort of 
tremulous so/io voce. “ He’s beset me to sing it, and I’ve tried, 
but law ! I hain’t no more voice than a crow." 

“ Please , sister!” cooed the child; and after one or two 
efforts, Gratia’s sweet, bird-like voice soared softly through the 
silence of the room, in the sweet old words that have brought 
rest and quietness to many a soul grown faint in the weary pil- 
grimage of the world — 

“Jesus, lover of my soul, 

Let me to Thy bosom fly ; 

While the angry billows roll — 

While the tempest still is nigh. 

Other refuge have I none, 

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee ! 

Leave, oh, leave me not alone ” 

And then her voice broke into a sob — a tempest of tears. 

“Oh, Father in heaven !” she wailed, “I cannot say ‘Thv 
will be done !’ I cannot bow to Thy decree. Raymond ! 
Raymond ! I can’t give you up !" 

Raymond looked up into her tear- wet face with a puzzled 
look. The end was nearer than any of them thought. 

“Sing more, Gratia," he whispered. “Are you crying ?" as 
a big tear plashed down on his little hands. “What for ? I am 
so happy now. I knew you would come, and I didn’t forget 
the old hymn, ‘Jesus, lover of my soul.’ " 

The little voice, raised tearfully, suddenly paused. 

“ It’s growing dark— all dark, Gratia," he murmured ; “but 
I can hear you singing yet : 

“ ‘ Leave, oh ! leave me not alone ; 

Still support— still support * ” 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


113 


It was no earthly voice the little child listened to so raptur- 
ously. For all we children of earth know, it might have been 
the voices of cherubim and seraphim before the Throne, for as 
the words quivered on Raymond’s lips he died. 

“Don’t ye cry, dear — don’t ye cry !” comforted kind Mrs 
Playfair, her own tears raining down on the little child whose 
eyes she was closing. “He’s gone to his mother now, and 
there’s no one can be to a child what his mother was, unless 
it’s the good Saviour, and He’s got ’em both now.” 

***** * * 

Once more in the star-sprinkled dark Gratia Kempfield left 
her father’s house — ah, how differently from the glad hopes 
with which she had entered it! The apples of Sodom, for 
which she had periled so much, had turned to ashes in her 
grasp — the little star she had worshiped had gone down in the 
great sea of death. And all that she carried away from the old 
home, where they had all been so happy together once, was one 
little flaxen curl pressed close to her aching heart. 

As she stood there the sound of jingling sleigh-bells chimed 
upon her ear. She stood aside to let the vehicle skim by, and 
as it shot past the sound of her step-mother’s hard, heartless 
laugh rang out. 

The jarring resonance roused her to new vigor. 

“Not yet!” she said to herself, setting her teeth close 
together. “It would please her too well were I to fail — to 
break down in the conflict— to die. There is something worth 
winning in the world — a triumph which shall be the bitterness 
of gall to her /” 


114 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

MRS. KEMPFIELD BEARS TESTIMONY. 

“ To — be— sureT ejaculated Mrs. Kempfield. 

She was coarser, and plumper, and more silky-voiced, if that 
were possible, than ever, as she sat there opposite Miss Fal- 
coner, with a pocket-handkerchief in her lap, which she kept 
out as a sort of tribute to the trouble which had overshadowed 
their roof that day. 

“So I supposed that of course you were the proper persons 
to apply to," said Miss Falconer, smoothly, by way of sequel to 
her previous conversation. 

“Dear me !” said Mrs. Kempfield, breathlessly. “What sort 
of a situation was it, now — governess or companion ?” 

“A sort of general charge of a gentleman’s family,’- answered 
Alberta, without the slightest hesitation. 

“Well, now, I am astonished she should have the insolence 
to refer to me ,” ejaculated Mrs. Kempfield, grasping at the 
handkerchief as viciously as if it were Gratia’s throat, “when 
she must have been aware that I knew her from A to Z !” 

Miss Falconer inclined her head with a flattering deference 
of manner. 

“I assure you, madam,” she said, “I am already convinced 
that you are an excellent judge of character. I shall rest quite 
satisfied with your verdict, whatever it may be. Of course I 
had my own doubts about the young woman ” 

“And well you might have had !” said Mrs. Kempfield, im- 
pressively. “Her own father , ma’am, has discarded her.” 

“Indeed!” 

“Discarded her !” repeated the step-mother, with a sort of 
malicious delight in defaming the character of the absent girl, 
“and for what, do you suppose?” 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 115 

“ I am sure I do not know,” said Alberta, evincing great in- 
terest. 

“You never could guess,” said Mrs. Kempfield, emphasizing 
her words with energetic twists at the handkerchief. 

“ I dare say I couldn’t,” sighed Alberta. “This is such a 
wicked world !” 

“It is, indeed,” cried Mrs. Kempfield. “ What would you 
say, ma’am, if I told you she was a thief ! Stole money, 
actually, from a very worthy man, a peddler, who chanced to be 
a guest in our house. Twenty dollars !” 

“I should not be at all surprised,” said Alberta, secretly 
exultant. 

“A mischief-maker — a bold, disobedient, idle, lazy — but here 
comes her father,” said Mrs. Kempfield, suddenly checked in 
a list of adjectives which threatened to be as long as the moral 
law. “Ira!” 

The rasping venom of her voice was changed to honeyed 
sweetness, as her husband came heavily into the room. 

He stopped and looked at her. 

“Here’s a lady called to make some inquiries about your 
daughter Gratia,” said his wife.” 

Not even the softening crucible of affliction through which 
this man was passing could blunt the sharp edge of his sullen 
malice against the daughter who had borne such sure although 
silent evidence against his household rule. 

“She’s no daughter of mine,” he said, almost savagely. 
“She has gone her own way, and I’ll neither make nor mar in 
the business. I don’t want to be uncivil to the lady, but it is 
a subject I’d rather not talk about.” 

“You see,” said Mrs. Kempfield, nodding her head, as her 
husband disappeared through the opposite door, “even her own 
father has nothing to say for her. He can’t bear evidence in 
her favor, so he is wisely silent.” 

“Well,” said Alberta Falconer, rising, “lam exceedingly 
obliged, Mrs. Kempfield, for your frankness and courtesy.” 


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The rickety little one-horse sleigh from the hotel at Wingley 
was waiting at the door for Alberta. 

“ Any way I’ve put a spoke in her wheel," thought the step- 
mother as she turned into the house. 

And very much the same thought passed through Miss Fal- 
coner’s mind, though after a more elegant fashion. 

“She defied mej” Alberta said to herself, with the flush of 
triumph burning on her cheek. “ I think I can prove to her 
now that I was not so unworthy an antagonist after all.” 

And the evening train, steaming into the New York depot, 
brought both Alberta and Gratia back, after scarcely ten hours’ 
absence. 

Gratia kept her own room all the next day, and it was not 
until the evening of the third day that she joined the family 
circle. Ida welcomed her rapturously. 

“Dear Gratia,” she cried, “it has seemed so long since I 
saw you. But how pale you are !” 

Alberta raised her searching black eyes to the pallid face of 
the other girl, and a curious smile came to her lips. 

“I think our darling Gratia has reason to be pale,” she 
said. 

“What do you mean ?” asked Ida. 

“The contemplation of such an important step in life, as she 
purposes taking, is of course something quite fearful,” said Al- 
berta, lightly. “Seriously, though, Gratia, you will have to 
give up your high moral ideas, and take to a little harmless 
rouge, like the rest of us.” 

‘ ‘ I have no desire to heighten my charms, ” said Gratia, 
coldly. 

Ida stole her arm softly round her adopted sister’s waist. 

“ Don’t talk to Aunt Alberta any more,” she whispered. “ I 
want you now. Look at all these beautiful new prints that 
have come for Uncle Ralph while he was gone.” 

Gratia turned them listlessly over, her eyes scanning their 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


117 


outlines with a careless glance which scarcely saw anything more 
than blank paper. 

“ Gratia/' cried the child, throwing down the portfolio of 
prints, ‘ * you are not a bit like yourself. What makes you look 
so grave ? Is it because Uncle Ralph is gone 

“Don’t ask questions, child,” said Alberta, with a laugh that 
jarred harshly on Gratia’s excited nerves. “Of course that is 
the reason. Lovers, my dear, are privileged persons in their 
moods. ” 

Gratia soon after went up stairs for the night, and Alberta 
rang the bell for Ida’s maid, and the little girl was taken up 
stairs, much marveling in her mind as to “what made Gratia 
so strange !” 

“ Mamma,” Alberta said, “I am by no means certain that 
there may not be a slip between Gratia Kempfield’s charming 
red lip and the cup of good fortune that is so nearly lifted to it. 
I shall do my best to open Uncle Ralph’s eyes.” 

“It will be of no use,” said Mrs. Falconer, dejectedly. 
“Ralph is in love— and an old man’s love is ten times deeper 
and less capable of change than that of a young one. You had 
better trim your sails to suit the wind, Alberta.” 

“ Not if I can help it,” said Alberta, biting her lip. “I shall 
try, at all events, to break the charm — and if I don’t succeed, 
why then I must take the consequences. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

UNCLE RALPH MAKES HIS WILL. 

It was not until late in the afternoon of the next day that 
Mr. Ralph Miller returned from Boston — an event looked for- 
ward to with very different emotions by Alberta and Gratia re- 
spectively. The former was only anxious to reveal to her uncle 
all the facts she had learned respecting the antecedents of his 


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young wife-elect ; the latter felt that matters had changed alto- 
gether since the day she promised to be his wife. 

Gratia was sitting in the drawing-room, arranging some 
flowers in a little moss basket for Ida, when the carriage con- 
taining her elderly lover drove up to the door. At the sound 
of his voice at the hall, a sudden tide of scarlet rushed to her 
cheeks, and she dropped a spray of wax-white tuberoses on the 
carpet 

“Oh, the beautiful flowers !” cried Ida, stooping to recover 
them ; and when she placed them in Gratia’s hand, she was 
calm and collected once more. 

“ How awkward I am !” she said, with a faint smile. 

“Iam sure you have an excellent excuse/' said Alberta, 
with a sweet, shallow laugh, intended to be the very quint- 
essence of archness. “However, if you will not go down to 
meet Uncle Ralph, I will do my best to make amends for your 
omission.” 

And she tripped down stairs, and welcomed him with osten- 
tatious affection. 

“ How is Gratia?” was his first question. 

“She is quite well, dear uncle, considering the journey she 
has taken during your absence,” Alberta answered. 

* ‘ A journey ? Gratia ?” 

“Yes. Oh, uncle, I have so much to tell you about 
Gratia. ” 

“ Let it be after I have rested a little, and had a cup of cof- 
fee,” said Mr. Miller, somewhat peremptorily. “I have trav- 
eled nine hours without stopping. Scipio, see that my things 
are sent at once to my room. ” 

Alberta Felconer felt herself baffled for the nonce, but she 
was determined not to be repulsed. 

“I will have an audience with my uncle yet before he sees 
her,” she inwardly resolved. 

And she waited patiently, curled upon the sofa with a book, 
directly under the gas-light that burned on the left hand side 


GRATIA 8 TRIALS. 


119 


of the hall as you approached Mr. Miller’s room from the 
carpeted stair-way, until he came out “freshened up” by a 
a bath and a cup of strong coffee. Alberta sprang up to meet 
him. 

“ Dear uncle, I have been waiting so patiently to see you.” 

His brows contracted slightly. 

“Is it a matter of vital importance, my dear? I was just 
going down stairs.” 

“But you must hear me first, uncle; you must, indeed !” 
cried Alberta, breathlessly. 

“Speak on, Alberta,” he said, leaning against the wall with 
folded arms, and quietly observant eyes. 

“Are you through ?” he asked, at last, when she paused, her 
budget of news thoroughly unfolded. 

“Yes, uncle.” 

“Then, Alberta, listen to me. Let this be the last time you 
dare to breathe an evil word or thought of the girl who is to be 
my wife. I trust her as I would one of God's angels — and I 
believe what you have told me to be as false as falsehood itself. 
Nor do I think any higher of you for this scheming attempt to 
prejudice her in my eyes — an attempt as futile as it has been ill 
considered. ” 

And leaving Alberta in a perfect frenzy of mortification, 
anger, and astonishment, he walked composedly down stairs 
and took Gratia into his arms as if she had been a pet child 
like Ida. 

“Iam going directly down to my office, darling,” he said, 
“where I have an appointment with my lawyer. I shall make 
my will in your favor this afternoon. ‘ Delays are dangerous,’ 
says the old proverb, and I am too old to risk any possibilities 
which can be avoided by a little precaution.” 

Gratia’s eyes, lifted slowly and languidly to his face, were 
arrested half way by the white, hot anger of a face she saw 
flitting past the door-way — the face of Alberta Falconer — and 
she was certain, in her inmost heart, that Alberta had heard 


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her uncle's words. Yes, there would be a passing sweet cup of 
triumph in being able to exalt over Alberta and her mother — 
Gratia was too human not to feel the full force of this — yet not 
even to drain this cup could she become this old man’s wife. 
Yet, as she looked into his beaming face, serenely benignant in 
its fixed lines, and invested with a sort of stately dignity by the 
silver threaded locks that rested on his temples, a new problem 
rose up before her mind. 

Would it be right to sacrifice his happiness to a mere whim 
on her own part? What mattered it, one way or the other, 
whom she married, or did not marry ? The charm and glory 
of her own life were gone, but that did not prevent her 
striving to make another existence happier than it might other- 
wise be. 

All this time she spoke not a word ; but Mr. Miller noticed 
the changing flush and pallor of her cheeks. 

“I have startled you, my love," he said, gently. “I am 
almost too old and clumsy to be a wooer, but you must teach 
me better. Shall I get you a glass of water?" 

“Oh, no, sir; I am better now — only — I had something to 
tell you." 

“And I have a great deal to say to you," he interrupted; 
“ but I must not stay now. I will see you again in the evening, 
and then we will perfect all our arrangements." 

As Mrs. Falconer stood alone in the drawing-room after the 
others had quitted it, Alberta came in, her cheeks blazing 
scarlet, her eyes glittering with angry light. 

“Mamma," she said, wreathing her fingers restlessly in one 
another, and biting her lip until the blood started, “it is of no 
use. She has conquered. " 

And she related to Mrs. Falconer what she had heard relative 
to Mr. Miller’s new will. 

“There is no fool like an old fool !" ejaculated Mrs. Fal- 
coner, angrily. “But I did think Ralph Miller had outgrown 
the age when a man needs must fail in love with a girl simply 


GRATIA* S TRIALS. 


121 


because she has youth and prettiness. Well, we have said, and 
done, and dared all that is possible. All that remains to us is 
simply to value the goods the gods give us.” 

While Mrs. Falconer and her daughter were thus discussing 
the affairs of the future, Gratia was in her room wrestling with 
her own heart, as Jacob wrestled with the angel of old. 

Ida, wearied with a more than usually exciting day, had fallen 
asleep on a low teie-a-lete at the other end of the room. 

A shuddering sob broke from her lips as she began noise- 
lessly pacing up and down the apartment. 

“What shall I do?” she murmured; “whither shall I turn? 
Oh ! if I were but safe in heaven with you, dear little Ray- 
mond ! I know now that I never can marry that old man, yet 
how shall I ever muster courage to tell him so. I would rather 
go out again and toil for my wretched pittance of daily bread, 
than to perjure myself before the altar by becoming the wife of 
a man whom I cannot love.” 

Dinner was rather a silent meal this evening. Nobody ate 
much, and very little conversation was kept up at the table. 
Before the dessert was removed, Scipio came to his master, and 
announced : 

“Mr. Parley, sah, waitin’ to see yer in de lib’ry,” in a low 
voice. 

“Directly, directly, tell him, Scipio,” said Uncle Ralph. 

Alberta looked meaningly at her mother. Mr. Parley, as 
both of them well knew, was Mr. Miller’s family lawyer, and 
his unlooked-for appearance was an evidence that the latter’s 
determination respecting his will had been duly carried into 
effect. 

Whatever the business was, it detained Uncle Ralph a close 
prisoner in his library until past nine o’clock ; then Mr. Parley 
having been honorably escorted to the door, Mr. Miller entered 
the drawing-room, and came straight to Gratia. 

“My love,” he said, stooping over her with reverential ten- 
derness, “I think you told me you had something to say to 


on ATI A 8 TRIALS. 


122 

me. I am now quite at liberty to hear it ; and it is more Mr. 
Parley’s fault than mine that I have not been released before.” 

Gratia's heart sank within her as she followed Mr. Miller into 
the library. He wheeled forward a chair, and beckoned to 
Gratia to seat herself. Mechanically she obeyed. 

“ Well, my darling,” he said, after a pause of a moment or 
two, “ what is it that you wanted to tell me?” » 

“That I cannot become your wife, Mr. Miller.” 

“Gratia 1” 

“I am quite in earnest, sir 1” 

The fetters of her tongue were unloosed atjast ; the invisible 
bondage that had seemed to weigh her down had melted away. 
She rose to her feet, and confronted him with the quiet dignity 
of one who knew her own mind, and was resolved to speak it. 

“But, Gratia, you accepted me before !” 

“ I know it, sir; but since that time I have better compre- 
hended my own heart. I was bewildered then, and taken by 
storm ; I scarcely knew the solemn import of what I was say- 
ing. Since then the scales have fallen from my eyes, and I see, 
fully, that I should be wronging both you and myself, were I 
to marry you. ” 

A look of exquisite pain swept across his features. 

“Dear Gratia,” he said, gently, “you will yet see good rea- 
son to change your mind in my favor. I shall not take you at 
your word until you have had an opportunity of reconsidering 
the whole question. I know that in the worlds eye our mar- 
riage will seem unsuitable, but are we to abide by the worlds 
decision or our own ? I know that I am no longer a young 
man, but my heart is fresh, still, Gratia. Do not dash down 
my hopes so inexorably. Take at least another night _to think 
of it.” 

She shook her head. 

“It would be quite useless, Mr. Miller, believe me.” 

“ Gratia, will you answer me one question?” 

“ As many as you choose to ask,” she answered, frankly. 


123 


J 

GRATIA' S TRIALS. 

“ Has the journey you took during my absence in Boston 
anything to do with this sudden resolution ?” 

She felt the rush of white pallor following scarlet blood suf- 
fusing her face as he looked steadily at her, and answered des- 
perately : 

“Yes, sir, it has.” 

“Then,” he said, “Alberta was right, after all, and you have 
been using my love and trust only as a cloak to. conceal your 
devotion to some other lover.” 

“ It is false !” said Gratia, energetically. “No man was ever 
encouraged to speak to me of love save yourself.” 

“ I believe you, Gratia,” he said, relenting. “I think no one 
could tell a falsehood with so good and pure a face as yours. 
But you have not yet given me a satisfactory reason for so ab- 
ruptly rejecting my addresses.” 

‘ ‘ Because I do not love you, sir, as a wife should love her 
husband.” 

“All that will come in time, my darling,” he said, reassur- 
ingly. “Only trust yourself -implicitly to me.” 

“ I dare not risk it,” she murmured. 

He took her hand, and gently compelled her to reseat 
herself. 

“I have too much at stake to allow you to leave me so, 
Gratia,” he said. “ Now, let us discuss this matter calmly and 
dispassionately. 

While this singular interview, so freighted with vital im- 
portance to both actors, was transpiring in the library, a more 
stormy session still was be.ing held in the central drawing-room 
below stairs. 

Robert Falconer had not dined with them, but as his - habits 
were not specially regular, that fact had elicited no particular 
notice. At about ten o’clock he let himself in at the front 
door with a latch-key, and came slowly and heavily into his 
mother’s presence. 

Mrs. Falconer looked keenly into his face. 


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GRATIA' S TRIALS . 


“Robert/’ she said, despairingly, “you have been drinking 
again. ” 

“Suppose I have,” he retorted, impatiently; “it is no worse 
than all the other fellows do.” 

“But it is worse,” said Mrs Falconer, “because you know 
very well that what few of the ‘fellows,’ as you call them, 
would feel at all, sets your brain on fire. Robert, you prom- 
ised me ” 

“There, mother, there!” he interposed, with a sort of in- 
solentfretfulness; “don’t let’s have anymore lecturing I’m 
not in the humor to stand it to-night. I can’t go along in this 
way any longer. I must have money.” 

“The old story again, Bob.” 

“The old story, and the new one,” said he, recklessly. “To 
tell you the truth, mother, I never have been quite frank with 
you before. I’ve been trying my hand at casino, and I’ve had 
the Evil One’s own luck ” 

“Which you deserved, for not keeping clear of those gam- 
bling hells after I had paid your debts once,” almost screamed 
Mrs. Falconer, whose work had dropped from her hand. 

“But,” went on Robert, apparently without hearing her in- 
terpolation, “I’ve had plenty of chances. They all knew I 
had a rich uncle, who couldn’t help cutting up fat some day, 
and every one was willing enough to lend to me. Then I lost 
heavily on the fall races at Fleetwood and Jerome Park, and 
Johnson told me there was such a good opportunity for me to 
make a few thousands on Nebraska bonds. So I raised a lot 
of money again, and my infernal luck swamped me and John- 
son both. The bonds ran down before we’d had ’em two 
days, and licked up our margin like wild-fire. And then there 
came about this story of the old governor going to take a 
young wife ” 

“How?” breathlessly interrupted his mother. 

“How should I know? How do such things always get 
about ?” 


GRATIA’ 8 TRIALS. 


125 


“ Probably you told it yourself in one of your drinking 
fits,” said Mrs. Falconer, bitterly. “ No one in the house has 
mentioned it.” 

•‘It don't matter how, but there's the fact,'' said Robert, 
savagely frowning. “And of course that let loose all the 
creditors on me, like a pack of,wolves.” 

“ Put them off, again, some way,'' suggested Mrs. Falconer. 

“ Easily said, but it can't be done.'' 

“ I don't know what else you can do,'' said his mother, with 
the weariness of utter despair. “ I have aready anticipated 
Hugo's allowance, and " 

“Mother,” the young man said, lowering his voice, “it must 
come out some day or other, if you don’t help me to hide it. 
I was half mad for five hundred dollars, and I signed Hugo's 
name to one of my checks. I knew he had plenty of money 
in the bank, and we are both Falconers.” 

“Robert!” 

“After all, where's the harm ? It’s only borrowing of him 
for a little while. Hugo has always had the devil’s luck in his 
business affairs, and I have never had any show at all. I meant 
to replace the money in bank before any row could be made 
about it, but you see how it is. Everything I’ve touched has 
been a failure.” 

Mrs. Falconer wrung her hands despairingly. 

“Oh, Robert, Robert! You are talking of forgery!” 

“ Hold your tongue !” exclaimed Robert Falconer, angrily. 
“I must have money — that’s the long and the short of it. My 
uncle must give it to me if you can’t, or else see the old Fal- 
coner name dragged through the mud and mire of the police 
courts. " 

“Your uncle — your uncle!” almost screamed poor Mrs. 
Falconer. “If it had not been for this foolish infatuation of 
his, your creditors could never have come upon you all at once. 
Oh, Robert, I would rather see him in his grave than married 
to that girl !” 


126 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


As she uttered the words, Alberta hurried into the room on 
tiptoe, her finger raised and her eyes sparkling. 

“ Mamma,” she cried, in a rapturous whisper, “ I have good 
news for you. Uncle Ralph and Gratia are quarreling. I 
heard voices as I came by, and I — I listened at the door. I 
heard him plainly say, ‘You have no right to treat me so !’ and 
she is on her knees to him. Oh, mamma, we shall yet be 
safe !” 

Mrs. Falconer’s heavy eyes caught something of the exultant 
glitter which lighted up those of her daughter. 

Are you sure, Alberta 

“Don’t I tell you I heard it with my own ears and saw it 
with my own eyes ?” 

“Then there is hope for us. Hush ! is that the clock striking 
ten ?” 

“ Eleven,” said Alberta, breathlessly. “And she is in the 
library still. I know it is something connected with that journey 
that has made mischief between them.” 

“At any rate,” said Robert, rising sullenly, “I shall goto 
bed. Things cannot be any worse with me than they are now ; 
and they may be better, that’s one consolation.” 

“Mamma.” said Alberta, apprehensively, “what has Bob 
been doing now? I see new trouble in your face.” 

“Nothing — nothing; don’t ask me now,” said Mrs. Fal- 
coner, dejectedly. “ Come, Alberta, let us go up stairs.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

WHO MURDERED HIM? 

Mr. Ralph Miller, albeit he was contemplating a change in 
his condition in life, had a good deal of the old bachelor leaven 
about him, and one of his pet whims was that no one but 
Scipio, the colored butler, must ever arrange either his own 
room or the library. 


GRATIA 8 TRIALS. 


127 


“Scip knows my ways,” Uncle Ralph was wont to say. 
“He understands just where I keep everything, and how I 
want things handled. I won't have a pack of house-maids 
peering and peeping about the place.” 

Early on the morning of this twenty-third day of Decem- 
ber, therefore, Scipio came leisurely up stairs, with brooms 
and dusters under his arm, and in his right hand a scuttle- 
ful of coal, surmounted by kindlings. 

As he entered the hall he saw a tray of china standing on 
the third stair of the second flight. He stopped short. 

“Datde second time Marianne’s lef’ dat ar cheeny ’bout,” 
he said, half aloud. “An’ de little painted set missis is so 
drefful ch’ice about !” 

He set down his coal-scuttle long enough to ring the house- 
maid’s bell sharply, and then went on to the library door 
just beyond, pushing it open with his foot, as he perceived 
that it was ajar. 

The next instant coal, kindlings, brooms, and all went 
crashing to the floor, as Scipio started back in consterna- 
tion. 

For, stretched on the Turkey carpet at his feet, lay the body 
of a dead man — Ralph Miller’s body ! 

Quite dead, with his arms thrown out on either side, and 
his face singularly peaceful, although the half-open eyelids 
disclosed glassily staring eyes, and the hands were tightly 
clenched. Scipio noted all these things in the first paroxysm 
of his terror and alarm. 

“Murder! Fire! Help! Robbers!” bawled Scipio, in 
the unreasoning excess of his consternation. “Ole massa’s 
done gone dead in a fit ! Go fo’ de doctor, some one. 
Help me to lif him up on de sofy. Good Lord !” suddenly 
dropping the hand he had lifted, “ it’s as cold as stone !” 

It seemed as though scarcely a minute had elapsed before 
the room, so lately hushed and silent, was full of eager specta- 
tors crowding in. 


128 


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Marianne, the house-maid, hurried in, all unmindful of her 
delinquencies, and the crash of breaking china on the staircase 
was the first thing that reminded her of the tray, as Robert 
Falconer rushed down stairs and into the room. 

“My stars!” ejaculated Marianne, “there goes that painted 
china that Mrs. Falconer’s so awful set on.” 

“Stop !” shouted young Falconer, as the footman was about 
to help Scipio lift up the prostrate form. “How is this? 
What has happened ? Be careful how you handle him ; this 
may be a paralytic fit. ” 

“No, sah, no,” said Scipio, sorrowfully. “He’s dead as a 
door-nail — he is so, Mass’ Robert. Jes’ feel his poor hand, sah 
— cold as marble.” 

Robert drew back with a shudder. 

“How did this happen?” he asked, in a low tone. 

“All I knows, sah,” answered Scipio, “is dat I came in as 
usual wid de coals for to kindle de fire, and I see him a-lyin’ 
straight on the floor afore me.” 

“ Don’t tell my mother suddenly,” said Robert, in a husky 
voice. “ It might kill her.” 

But his caution had come too late. Mrs. Decker, the house- 
keeper, had rushed shrieking across the hall. 

“Oh, get up, ma’am, get up !” screamed Decker, as soon as 
she could catch her breath, “or we shall all be murdered in 
our beds !” 

Mrs. Falconer started from a fevered slumber into which she 
had fallen toward daylight. 

“Mr. Miller, ma’am!” gasped Decker, in answer to her 
mistress look of blank astonishment and dismay, “he’s lyin’ 
dead in the library, in a fit, ma’am.” 

At the same moment Alberta came into the room from a side 
entrance. 

“Mamma, what is it?” she cried. “What does all this 
screaming and confusion mean ?’ ; 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


129 


Mrs. Falconer had sunk back against her pillows, deathly 
pale. 

“I — I don’t know,” she said, in accents of terror. “Go 
and see. And, Decker, send my maid. I am sure there must 
be some frightful mistake.” 

Miss Falconer only staid to twist her hair up in a loose coil, 
and to belt down her dressing-gown, and so it happened that 
she entered the library directly after the doctor, who had been 
hastily summoned from his residence on the next block. 

“Stand back !” she said, authoritatively, to the crowd of 
servants. “What is it, Robert, tell me 1” 

“You had best go back,” said Robert, sharply. He’s dead, 
and you can’t bring him back to life. This is no place for you 
women. ” 

“lam not one of your nervous kind,” said Alberta, con- 
temptuously. “ Doctor, you, at least, are not half crazed with 
terror. What is it all about ?” 

Dr. Hayley had knelt down on the carpet, beside the sofa 
on which they had laid the corpse of Ralph Miller, and was 
going through the usual formula of feeling the pulse, which 
had long ceased to beat, examining the features, and listening 
for any possible indications of dormant vitality. 

Presently he rose and looked down upon the corpse for an 
instant, with a puzzled face. Then, stooping over, he tore 
open the satin vest which Mr. Miller habitually wore, and ex- 
amined the pulseless heart. 

“There has been some foul play here,” he uttered, in ac- 
cents of the extremest horror and dismay. 

“ Foul play !” gasped Alberta, while her brother stood, pale 
and silent, at the side of the sofa. “ Oh, doctor, you are mis- 
taken, surely !” 

“Iam not mistaken,” said Dr. Hayley, in a low tone. “At 
first I was tempted to imagine that his death proceeded from 
some natural cause ; but the hand of Nature never opened the 


130 GRATIA' S TRIALS. 

gates through which he passed to the other world. This is the 
corpse of a murdered man !” 

Alberta’s shrill shriek of terror echoed through the house, 
but Robert only pressed closer to the doctor’s side. 

“Tell me what has led you to suspect this thing?” he asked, 
in an eager, stifled voice. 

“Look here.” 

Dr. Hayley bent over the corpse and pointed to a tiny spot 
of deep, sullen red — a pin-prick, as it were — upon the breast. 

“Touch that, he said, and you will feel that there is some 
metallic substance below it — probably a very small slender dag- 
ger. This man has been stabbed to the heart !” 

But Robert started back. 

“It is horrible 1” he muttered. “ How can you treat it so 
lightly?” 

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. 

“ It is a part of my profession,” he said. “I have seen such 
a case as this once before, in an instance where an Italian wo- 
man murdered her husband in a paroxysm of jealousy. She 
used a long, slender darning needle, and if it hadn’t been for a 
single link of evidence, we never should have suspected but 
that the man died a natural death. Your uncle has been foully 
murdered, Mr. Falconer.” 

“But by whom?” 

“It is your business to ascertain whom,” said Dr. Hayley, 
with the quiet self possession with which medical men always 
seem to regard the grim presence of death. “ The police must 
be notified at once. The coroner must be summoned to 
attend.” 

“Is that necessary?” Mr. Falconer asked, seeming rather to 
dislike the idea.” 

“ Not pleasant, but necessary,” Dr. Hayley answered. “ In 
the meantime, as I can be of no further use, I may as well re- 
turn home.” 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


131 


He was edging' his way through the crowd as Alberta ap- 
proached her brother, and said, in a trembling whisper : 

“Robert, do you not suspect who has done this?” 

“No.” 

He turned a face of indescribable terror toward her. 

“You are purposely blind!” she cried, still in the same 
whisper, which was clear and sibilant. “ It was Gratia 1” 

“ Impossible !” 

“Not by any means impossible; and you will find I am cor- 
rect. Don’t you remember their quarrel last night? Don’t 
you remember — but you were not here in the afternoon,” she 
cried, recollecting herself, “ but the rest of us heard it. He 
announced his intention of going down to Mr. Parley’s office 
to make his will in her favor. Mr. Parley was with him in 
this very room until after nine o’clock. It was after that that they 
had their long interview ; that they quarrelled in my hearing, 
as I chanced to be passing. Don’t you see, Bob ?” she cried, 
grasping eagerly at his arm. “She must have perceived that 
her opportunity was slipping away. She knew that his will was 
made, and she meant that he never should have a chance of al- 
tering it. Oh, / knew her all along ; / saw through all her 
sweet smiles and gentle ways, and foretold it all, though no one 
would believe me.” 

He stood looking at her, as if the force and suddenness of 
the calamity now descending upon their house had bereft him 
of the power of immediate comprehension. 

‘ ‘ Alberta, ” he said, hoarsely, ‘ ‘ I never thought of this before. 
But it may be possible — nay, I cannot deny that it is probable. 
This matter must be investigated.” 

Robert whispered to Scipio a brief order to go at once to the 
coroner’s office, and to give directions below stairs that not a 
soul should be admitted, with the exception of the police and 
the necessary officials. 

Gratia was in her room, brushing the long, bright curls, 
when Ida hastened into the room. 


132 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


“ Gratia,” she faltered, “ do you know what they are saying 
down stairs ?” 

“ No,” she replied, her lips smiling a soft welcome to the 
new-comer. 

“That Uncle Ralph is dead.” 

“ Dead !” 

Gratia started back so suddenly that the ivory-bacKed hair- 
brush fell to the floor, while the soft roses in her cheek blanched. 

“And that he is murdered, Gratia !” 

“ It is impossible !” said Gratia, gathering new courage from 
the sight of the little girl’s terror. “Come, let us go down 
and see for ourselves. I will put on my dress in an instant.” 

Mrs. Falconer’s hysterical screams, and Alberta’s voice en- 
deavoring to reassure her, reached their ears as they passed the 
door of her apartment ; but, although they looked with silent 
dismay into each other’s faces, neither spoke. In the hall below 
they met Scipio. 

“ Best go back, young ladies,” said the old man. “Tain’t 
no place for de likes ob you here.” 

“Is it true, Scipio?” cried Ida, breathlessly. 

“ It’s all true, miss, dear,” said the old colored man. “ He's 
dead, an’ I’s done los’ de bes’ massa ever nigger had. An* dat 
ain’t de worst ob it— he’s murdered , Miss Ida !” 

Ida burst into a cry of horror, but Gratia did not speak for a 
moment. 

‘ ‘ Let us go back, Ida, ” she said at last, and Ida obeyed her. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

SEEKING FOR A CLEW. 

“What is it, Gratia?” Ida asked, with tearful earnestness, 
early in the afternoon. “What is a coroner's inquest?” 

“I don’t quite know myself, dear; twelve men, I believe, 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


133 


who come and make inquiries in case of a sudden and mys- 
terious death, and decide what has been the cause of it. " 

But how can they tell who killed Uncle Ralph ?’’ 

“ I can't tell you, Ida ; perhaps they cannot. But they will 
do their best to investigate the mystery. ” 

“Who do you suppose it was, Gratia ? Who could be cruel 
enough to hurt a good man like Uncle Ralph, and one that 
everybody loved ?" 

“There are more cruel people in the world, Ida, than you 
have any idea of," said Gratia, sadly, as she sat on the lower 
stair of the upper flight, with Ida leaning against her. 

At that moment Mrs. Falconer swept by. 

“ Ida," she said, “what are you sitting here for ? Go to your 
room, child, until all this tumult and confusion are over. As 
for you, Miss Kempfield, I wonder that you have the audacity 
to show your face at all, after what has happened. ” 

The tone, more than even the insulting words, stung Gratia 
keenly. She rose with burning cheeks and quivering lip. 

“Why should I not show my face? What do you mean, 
Mrs. Falconer?" 

But Mrs. Falconer only answered by taking Ida’s hand and 
leading her away; and when Gratia would have gone down 
stairs to the little reception-room off the hall, she was inter- 
cepted by Scipio. 

“ Berry sorry, Miss Gratia, but you can’t come down." 

“ Why not, Scipio ?" 

“No one is to go down till arter de inquest is ober. Berry 
sorry, but dem’s my orders. ’’ 

“And I do not wish you to disobey them on my account," 
said Gratia, quietly turning back again. 

And as she went up, she could hear Scipio speaking in a low 
voice to Marianne, who was dusting the paneled black walnut 
of the hall wainscoting. 

“ Dar ! I tole you she neber was the one to do it I ’Tain’t 
natural she should." 


134 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


“Just wait and see,” retorted Marianne, viciously whisking 
her duster into an obscure corner. “ If she didn’t, who did ?” 

Vaguely wondering what the servants were talking about, 
Gratia went back to her room. 

In the meanwhile the coroner’s jury were duly assembled in 
the library, where the corpse lay lightly covered with a white 
sheet. The usual forms and ceremonies were gone through 
with, and Scipio’s evidence was then taken. The faithful 
negro, with tears streaming down his face, told how he had 
found his master’s corpse on first entering the room that 
morning. 

“And you have no idea how it could have happened?” 
asked one of the jury. 

“No, sah, dat I hasn’t.” 

“He was on good terms with all the servants ?” 

“ ’Deed was he !” Scipio answered, indignantly. “ Dar wasn’t 
one on ’em but would hab gone on dere knees to sarb him, he 
was dat considerate, was Massa Miller.” 

“And the family — had there been any violent misunder- 
standing? You understand — there will be family quarrels, no 
matter how harmoniously people live?” 

“Yes, sah, I comprehends !” Scipio answered, with dignity. 
“No, sah, der was no quarrel. We doesn’t quarrel, sah. Ex- 
cept, maybe,” and Scipio rubbed his gray wool perplexedly, 
“once in a while Mass Bob. Mass Bob, sah, was always 
wantin’ money — young gentlemen does, you know, sah — an’ 
Mr. Miller, he hadn’t no patience wid dat.” 

“ Did it ever amount to a serious difficulty?” questioned the 
juryman. 

“Bless your heart, sah, you’d tink dey’d tar each other to 
pieces— but it neber lasted long. Didn’t ’mount to nothing, 
sah.” 

“ How was it last evening?” 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


135 


“Mass Bob wasn’t at de dinner table — didn’t see his uncle 
de whole evenin’.” 

“ How do you know ?” 

“ He didn’t come in till ten o’clock or arter — I let him in 
myself, an’ dat’s de way I knows. Mr. Miller was in de library 
wid Miss Gratia, de young lady he was to marry — and Mass 
Bob went up to bed afore Miss Gratia lef de libr’y.” 

“But he might have come down again.” 

“No, sah, he didn’t.” 

“ How do you know ? Did you sit up all night to watch ?” 

“No, sah, but I knows, dis yer ways : Mars Bob he went up 
while I was settin’ in de hall readin’ de paper, an’ it was mos' 
an hour arterward dat Miss Gratia cum out ob de libr’y, an’ 
ran up stairs as fas’ as eber she could jump. So I set dar 
awhile longer, waitin’ to hear if ole massa wrung his bell, or 
wanted anything.” 

“Was he in the habit of ringing for you at that hour of the 
night ?” 

“Not often, sah. Once in awhile. Sometimes he set in 
de library an’ write half de night, or read, an’ he neber likes de 
servants to set up for him. Arter I heard de clock strike mid- 
night I went to bed. I put out de hall gas, but de libr’y door 
stood a little way open, an’ I could see de light shining on de 
carpet. ” 

“ Could you see into the room ?” 

“No, sah.” 

“ Nor hear anything ?” 

“Not a sound, sah — but Mr. Miller was always quiet like.” 

“ And that was the last you saw of the library door?” 

“Yes, sah, dat was de las'.” 

“Then how can you be sure that Mr. Robert Falconer did 
not come down to his uncle afterward?” 

“ Dat was what I was coming to !” said Scipio, with an in- 
jured air. “Marianne, sah, she’s de second house-maid. 
She’s a good worker, but she’s mighty forgetful ; an’ missis she 


136 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


likes de little tray o’ cheeny brought up to her room ebery 
night, arter de cups is washed, an’ it s Marianne’s business. 
Well, it done happened dat Marianne had a beau las’ night 
an’ done forgot de cheeny till arter ten o’clock. Didn’t dar 
to tell me,” added Scipio, with dignity, “for I’d reproved 
her so often for just de same ting, so she waited till I’d gone 
to bed, an’ den crept up stairs in her stockin’ feet wid de 
tray in her hands. But when she came to de libr’y door 
she see de light shinin’ out on de floor, an’ she did’t dare 
to keep on, les’ somebody should come out an’ catch her. 
So she done set de tray on de stairs — Mrs. Falconer’s dressin’- 
room door was part open, too, an’ dat was jus’ beyond — 
an’ Marianne she t’ought she could easily come up early in 
de mornin’ afore any one was stirin’, an’ put de tray in de 
dressin’-room, and nobody be none the wiser ! An’ if Mass’ 
Bob had come down arter dat he mus’ hab tumbled ober de 
tray, an’ de half-light — nobody couldn’t a-seen it from above — 
an’ roused de whole house, besides breakin’ his own neck. An’ 
dat de way I knows he didn’t, sah.” 

“A very ingenious chain of evidence,” said the coroner, 
smiling. “ Now let us have Marianne up at once.” 

Marianne’s testimony corroborated that of the old negro in 
every particular. 

“Did you observe that your mistress’ dressing-room door 
was open?” asked one of the jurymen. 

“A little way, sir.” 

“Was the light burning then?” 

“Yes, sir; turned down very low, I should judge.” 

“Was your mistress in the habit of leaving a light all 
night ?” 

“Yes, sir. Mrs. Falconer was nervous nights. I wouldn’t 
have minded that , sir, but I was afraid Mr. Miller would open 
the library door and see me, and he was mortal particular 
about that fancy china.” 

“It seems that your carelessness has for once done your 


GRATIA* 8 TRIALS. 


137 


young master a good turn,” said Mr. Cleve, the young juryman 
who spoke oftenest ; and the coroner told the flurried house- 
maid, to her great relief, that “she might go down.” 

Dr. Hayley’s evidence was next in order, according to the 
coroner's tablets. He testified, plainly enough, that death had 
been almost instantaneously caused by the slender poniard or 
dagger which had been found buried in the heart. He in- 
stanced one or two similar cases, and was waxing rather scien- 
tific, when Mr. Cleve somewhat impatiently interrupted him. 

“ I believe there is no manner of doubt about how the death 
was caused,” he said, “but our business seems now to be to 
find out who caused it.” 

Scipio spoke a low word or two in the coroner’s ear at this 
moment, rather reluctantly as it seemed. 

“ Let Miss Falconer be sworn at once,” said he. “ There is 
some probability that fresh light will be thrown on the case 
now, gentlemen.” 

Miss Falconer was the next to testify, in a pretty, hesitating 
way that could not but favorably impress the jury. 

“Have you formed any idea as to who did the deed, Miss 
Falconer ?” the coroner asked. 

“Must I answer that question?” she faltered. 

“Certainly. Remember that you are under oath.” 

“Then,” she said, after a moment or two of silence, “I 
must speak the truth. I believe the murder to have been com- 
mitted by Gratia Kempfield, the girl to whom my Uncle Ralph 
was engaged. ” 

“What has led you to this belief?” 

“Several circumstances, sir. One is that I chanced to over- 
hear them quarreling violently late last night, as I passed the 
library door. My uncle, in a voice of the greatest agitation, 
exclaimed : ‘You have no right to treat me so,’ or words to 
that eftect, and she was kneeling on the floor before him, ap- 
parently supplicating for something.” 

“What do you suppose it to have been?” 


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“I believe that he had broken their engagement, and that 
she was entreating to be again received into favor. Mistaken 
motives of delicacy induced me to hasten on. I wish now that 
I had remained to see what next transpired.” 

“What did you judge from the sound of their voices ? Was 
he angry ?” 

“Very, I should think, and she was evidently anxious to 
conciliate him.” 

“ Did he say more?” 

“ He might haue done so. Probably he did, but I did not 
stay to hear. That was the last word I ever heard him speak,” 
and Alberta’s voice faltered. 

“You said there were ‘ circumstances’ which led to this be- 
lief on your part. What were the others ?” 

“One was the fact that my uncle had made his will in the 
girl’s favor yesterday. ” 

“ How do you know ?” 

“ He told us all so, or gave us to understand as much. His 
Jawyer was with him until nine o’clock. And the hope to in- 
herit the wealth that would have been withheld from her, in the 
case of a quarrel leading to permanent estrangement, might 
have led to the murder.” 

The coroner looked keenly at Alberta. 

“You seem to have considered the matter in all its bearings, 
young lady. ” 

“I have, sir,” returned Miss Falconer, composedly. “It 
is scarcely in nature for one to lose so near and dear a relative 
as suddenly as I have done, without deeply cogitating on all the 
possibilities as to how it could have occurred. ” 

“ Go on. Tell us all you think on the subject.” 

“Certainly; but you must remember that I do not state 
these things as facts, only as my own impressions. Another 
circumstance has also impressed itself indelibly on my mind — a 
conversation between Gratia Kempfield and my niece, Ida, a 
few days ago. They were looking over some French anatomi- 


GRATIA' 3 TRIALS. 


139 


cal prints which had been sent to my uncle, and Gratia asked 
where was the location of the heart. They found it, and after 
studying it intently Gratia said, in a strange, sudden way which 
attracted my attention, something about ‘how slight a thrust 
could put an end to all the world’s troubles.’ I am not posi- 
tively certain as to the words, but that was their import.” 

“When was that?” 

“The afternoon before my uncle’s return from Boston.” 

“Well ?” 

“And I have frequently heard her assert that she would do 
anything for the sake of money. It has always seemed to me 
that she was of a remarkably mercenary temperament for one so 
young. ” 

Mrs. Falconer, Robert, and Ida were all three next examined, 
each in due succession. Mrs. Falconer’s words confirmed those 
of her daughter. She had always disliked and distrusted Gra- 
tia Kempfield, who had become a member of their family en- 
tirely through a whim of her elder son, now absent in Belgium, 
and of whose antecedents or family history they had known ab- 
solutely nothing. Mr. Miller, they had known, with regret, 
to have fallen under the spell of the girl’s extreme youth and 
great beauty, in a mood that amounted to actual infatuation, 
but they had trusted to the very last that he would find her out 
The disenchantment, however, had seemingly come too late. 

Robert was more non-committal. Had always liked and ad- 
mired Gratia Kempfield ; saw no objection to his uncle’s mar- 
rying when he liked, although he should, of course, have pre- 
ferred for an aunt-in-law some one whose social standing was a 
little more refined. Never had seen anything about Gratia 
which induced him to believe that she was of a passionate or 
revengeful disposition. Could not say what she might or might 
not have done under the influence of extreme temptation. 
Knew there was some row in the library the night before, as he 
passed the half-open door, from the sound of voices, but asked 
no questions, supposing matters would right themselves. 


140 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


Ida, crying bitterly, was persuaded by the coroner, and com- 
manded by her grandmother, to repeat the conversation that 
had transpired over the anatomical plates. 

“But I know Gratia never did it,” sobbed the child. “I 
know it !” 

“ Your room is near that of Miss Kempfield ?” the coroner 
asked, kindly. 

“ It is the next room.” 

“ Did you hear her come up stairs last night ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Did you speak to her ?” 

“I called ‘Gratia’ as she passed my door, and begged her to 
come in, as she often did at night when I couldn’t get to 
sleep. ” 

“And what answer did she make ?” 

“She said, ‘Not to-night, Ida.’ ” 

“ Did her voice sound as if she were under the power of any 
strong emotion ?” 

“ It sounded as if she had been crying.” 

“Was she in the habit of being easily moved to tears ?” 

“ I shall not answer you any more !” flashed out Ida. “You 
want me to say something against Gratia — and I won’t, for she’s 
the sweetest, best, dearest ” 

And here Ida ran up to her grandmother and buried her sob- 
bing face on the lady’s shoulder. Even Mrs. Falconer looked 
appealingly at the coroner. He nodded, and she rang the bell 
for Joanna to take her young lady away. 

And the first intimation that Gratia Kempfield had of the 
fearful suspicions which were every instant forming themselves 
into a darker cloud of testimony against her, was the passionate 
exclamation of the little girl as she limped into the room, her 
curls hanging disheveled about her face, and her cheeks aflame. 

“They tried to make me say something against you, Gratia, 
but I wouldn’t ! I wouldn’t ! I wouldn’t 1” 

“Against me, Ida?” 


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141 


The child answered only by her sobs. The scene below 
stairs, with its array of silent jurymen, its crowd of listeners at 
the door, and the ghastly presence of the covered corpse in the 
background, had racked her nervous system to the utmost ex- 
tent of its endurance. 

“Joanna, what does she mean?” Gratia asked, lifting her 
eyes to the maid, while she smoothed down Ida’s hair, and en- 
deavored to quiet her agitation. 

“ It means, miss — not as I believe a word of it !” cried Joanna, 
excitedly — “ but they’re a-tryin’ down stairs to prove as it was 
you murdered the poor, dear gentleman.” 

“That — it — was — / — murdered — him!” slowly repeated 
Gratia, almost stauck dumb by the force and suddenness of the 
suspicion. “Great Heaven !” 

“Miss, you ben’t goin’ to faint ?” screamed Joanna, catching 
up the caraffe of water, as a deadly ashen hue crept up to the 
roots of Gratia’s hair. 

“No,” Gratia answered, recovering herself with an effort, and 
Ida sobbed out the whole story to her. 

“It’s a shame, miss ! a burning shame, so it is !” cried the 
zealous Joanna. “But it’s my belief Miss Alberta’d like to see 
you hanged !” 

“You must not speak so, Joanna,” said Gratia, calmly. 
“It is some hideous mistake — it must be. It will be set right 
after a while ; we need not worry outselves about it.” 

But Joanna could see that she was trembling violently as she 
spoke ; and almost at the same moment Scipio knocked at the 
door. The coroner’s jury requested the presence of Miss 
Kempfield down stairs in about fifteen minutes. 

“Jes’as soon as dey done get troo wid Mr. Parley,” said 
Scipio, in a low tone. “Dey ’re a-edzsgninin’ of Mr. Parley 
now. ” 

“You’re not going, miss!” said Joanna. “No one ain’t 
bound to criminate themselves to please other folks.” 

“Iam not afraid to tell all that I know,” said Gratia, with 


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gentle dignity. “ Heaven always protects the innocent, and 
Heaven itself knows that I am as guiltless of the terrible deed 
as little Ida herself. Yes, Scipio, I will come.” 

Mr. Parley's examination elicited the fact that although all 
the preliminaries had been arranged for the new will in Gratia 
Kempfield’s favor, the paper itself had not been executed, and 
that consequently the will of ten years since — leaving the prop- 
erty equally to his two nephews and his niece, with a liberal 
provision for Ida, and a generous legacy to his sister, Julia 
Eloise Falconer — was still in force. 

“ But she did not know but that the will was duly signed !” 
cried Alberta, forgetting her own triumph in her anxiety to fix 
the stain of guilt upon Gratia Kempfield. “ She supposed his 
death would leave her sole heiress of everything, if it happened 
before he could have time to alter his bequest ; and she said 
herself she would do anything for the sake of being rich.” 

There was a momentary hush throughout the room as Gratia 
Kempfield entered, looking very lovely with a crimson flush on 
either cheek, and eyes shining with repressed excitement. The 
coroner himself, albeit he was a staid old gentleman, nearer 
seventy than sixty years old, could not but look admiringly on 
the young beauty, as she stood there graceful and silent, with 
the dreadful shadow of suspicion and mystery encompassing her 
around as it were. 

“You were engaged to marry Mr. Miller, Miss Kempfield, 
were you not ?” he asked, courteously. 

“No, sir.” 

“You were not?” 

“Up to nine o’clock last night, I was — after that time, our 
engagement was canceled.” 

“By his wish ?” 

“No, sir, by my own.” 

“Are you willing to state your reasons for annulling the mar- 
riage compact ?” 


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143 


“No, sir, I am not. The reasons were purely personal 
to myself, and can have no possible bearing on the present 
affair. ” 

“Was he willing to release you from the compact ?” 

“ He seemed at first very unwilling ; he declared repeatedly 
that I was wrong in my determination — that I had no right to 
treat him so ; but I finally succeeded in convincing him that I 
was in the right.” 

“ Did you kneel to him ?” 

She colored scarlet. 

“I did — to implore his forgiveness for the wound I knew I 
was inflicting upon his noble and kindly nature — to entreat 
him to forget me and my ill-advised promise to marry him.” 

“And he?” 

“ He forgave me, and we parted friends.” 

“What was he doing when you left him ?” 

“ He stood by the fire, leaning one arm on the mantel.” 

“ Do you remember what time it was?” 

“Not precisely, but I suppose it could not have been far 
from midnight.” 

“Did you know anything of Mr. Miller’s testamentary 
papers ?” 

“I supposed he had made his will in my favor. He told 
me so.” 

“The will was prepared,” said Mr. Parley, slowly, “but not 
signed. ” 

Gratia inclined her head quietly, as if that were a matter of 
no sort of interest to her. 

“Miss Kempfield,” said the coroner, evidently somewhat 
puzzled by her demeanor, “had you any expectation of in- 
heriting all or a portion of Mr. Miller’s wealth after you had 
heard of his death ?” 

“ I never gave it a thought, sir.” 

“Yet one of the witnesses here to-day has testified to hear- 


144 


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ing you say once that you would do anything for the sake of 
money. ” 

Gratia stood a moment thinking. 

“ I did say so once. I thought so then, but during the last 
week all my opinions on that subject have been vitally changed.” 

“Have you formed no opinion on the question as to who 
has murdered Ralph Miller ?” 

“No, none.” 

“ Had he any enemies within your knowledge ?” 

“No, sir, not one'in the world.” 

“You may go, Miss Kempfield.” 

And Gratia left the room as quietly as she had entered it. 

“Iam sure she did it !” cried Alberta, the instant the door 
was closed. “She is stoical and prepared, and her own mother 
said she was capable of any evil deed. ” 

“ Her j/^-mother,” said Robert Falconer. 

“It’s just the same.” 

“Indeed it isn’t, then,” said the young man. “Don’t be 
spiteful, Berta ; she never can be your aunt now, nor the heiress 
of Uncle Ralph’s money, and I no more believe she did it than 
that you did. ” 

“ Then who was it that murdered Uncle Ralph ?” 

“The police must ferret that out.” 

“But isn’t Gratia even to be arrested?” breathlessly ques- 
tioned Alberta. 

“There is no shadow of an excuse for doing so. Miss 
Falconer, your zeal carries you to extremes,” said Mr. Parley, 
soothingly. 

“ But I am certain she was the murderess !” 

“ Morally certain, perhaps, my dear young lady; and I must 
confess that I share your suspicion on the subject. But it is 
necessary that we must be legally certain as well, to justify ex- 
treme measures.” 

Fifteen minutes afterward the jury brought in the only ver- 
dict that could possibly have been expected ; “ Death from the 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


145 


hand of some person or persons unknown/’ and the melancholy 
conclave broke up. 

‘‘Never knew such a puzzling affair in all my life,” said Mr. 
Cleve to the lawyer, as he passed out. 

“Very melancholy/’ said another. 

“ Of course that pretty girl must have done it,” said a third. 
“ I’ve known the temper of a demon hidden under a more 
attractive exterior than hers. But she struck the blow a little 
too soon.” 

“There’s an ugly look in the whole thing,” said another 
juryman, for the first time speaking above his breath, as he 
passed out of the marble-paved vestibule into the open air. 
“And if I were Mrs. Falconer, I would get that girl out of the 
house as soon as possible. Mind, I don’t say anything,” he 
added, rather apprehensively, and went his way. 

And once more the gloom and dreariness of twilight came 
down upon the room in which Ralph Miller lay dead. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE BRIDAL PEARLS. 

“Scipio !” 

The old negro, sitting by the door of his dead master's 
room, started from the half doze into which he had fallen in 
the dusk. 

“ Miss Gratia, is it you ?” 

“Yes. I want to look at him, Scipio. I have not seen him 
since last night, and you know he was very, very kind to me.” 

Scipio rose up with alacrity. He was one of the firmest be- 
lievers in “ Miss Gratia’s” spotless innocence. 

“ Deed was he miss, and so he was to all of us. Ole Scip’ll 
neber get such anoder massa. Come in, Miss Gratia. ” 

He held the door open for her to pass. 


146 


OB ATI A 8 TRIALS. 


A pair of wax candles, in massively frosted siver sticks, 
burned on the mantel, and the corpse lay peacefully in a rich 
rosewood coffin. 

The tears fell swift and scalding from Gratia’s eyes, as she 
stood looking down at the peaceful, dead face. 

“Dear friend,” she murmured aloud. “ He who has said, 

‘ Vengeance is mine, and I will repay !’ will surely bring this 
crime home to the murderer’s guilty head. And your peace 
will be everlasting.” 

And as she spoke she took the corpse’s cold hand into hers 
for an instant, and touched her lips to the pallid forehead. 
Scipio, standing silently by, looked from his dead master to her, 
and then back again. 

“No one need tell me now dat it was her done it,” he said 
to himself. “De blood gushes out from de wounds ob de 
murdered man when de murderer comes near, and I could e’en 
a’most fancy poor Mas’ Miller smilin’ when she come a-nigh de 
coffin an’ looked at him. She’s as innocent as de white lilies 
on de coffin-lid. Needn’t to tell old Scip.” 

As she entered the hall she heard the rustle of silken garments, 
and Mrs. Falconer stood before her, with a countenance full 
of subdued rage. 

“How dare you enter that room?” she hissed under her 
breath. “ How dare you prowl thus openly about the house 
where you have wrought such horror and ruin ?” 

“Mrs. Falconer!” 

“Don’t Mrs. Falconer me in that soft, whining voice !” ut- 
tered the lady, fiercely. “Iam no weak, silly old man, to be 
infatuated by your airs and graces. That you are not in jail 
now is your good luck, not your merit ; but that you should 
strut around as calmly as if that stain of blotfd was not on your 
hand— that is too much ! Go to your room, and hide that doll 
face of yours from very shame. I give you until* to-morrow 
morning to find a home ; that is more than most persons treated 


on ATI A 8 TRIALS. 


147 


as I have been would allow you. To-morrow you will leave 
the shelter of this roof forever.” 

“ What have I done to be thus turned out of doors ?” Gratia 
wailed. “If Colonel Falconer were at home I should not be 
without a friend.” 

“It is like your brazen-faced insolence to think that you 
could captivate him also,” Mrs. Falconer rejoined, in hot 
wrath. 

Gratia shrank back and colored scarlet at the unlooked for 
interpretation that Hugo Falconer’s mother had put upon her 
words. 

“Ay, you may well cower. But Hugo would never allow 
his uncle’s house to be turned into a harboring place for mur- 
derers. I have borne much for his sake. I have endured a 
great deal, because he left you, as it were, in my charge ; but 
the limits of endurance have been long since over-passed. Go, 
I say, and let me not see your face again.” 

Gratia made no answer. She knew well that any words of 
hers would only be as fresh fuel to the flame of the virtuous 
matron’s indignation. 

“ How came you to admit her into that room, Scipio?” an- 
grily demanded his mistress. “ Had you no sense of propriety ?’’ 

“Well, ma’am,” said Scipio, sturdily, “we all on us done 
has our own ’pinions on dis subjeck, an’ mine is dat Miss Gratia, 
she’s as innocent of knowin’ any t’ing ’bout dis yar murder as 
your own darter, ma’am. An’ I hadn’t no orders to let no one 
in pa’tic’lar in, nor keep no one in pa’tic’lar out.” 

“Fool!” cried the lady, sweeping past him, and deigning 
no further notice. 

Gratia Kempfield had gone up to her own apartment with a 
sense of frightful desolation and solitude about her. She had 
not a friend in the world to whom she could apply in this hour 
of sorest need ; and she dropped her head on her hands and 
erred out in her agony. 


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Almost at the same moment there was a tap on the door, 
and a light, halting step on the threshold. 

“Come back, miss/’ cried the voice of Joanna, subdued to a 
tone below its natural pitch. “ It’s against your grandmama’s 
express orders ; it’s as much as my place is worth to let you in 
there. ” 

“I don’t caare, ” uttered the voice of Ida. “I will go to 
her !” 

And the next moment her arms were round her adopted 
sister’s neck, her velvet cheek pressed close to Gratia’s hot fore- 
head. 

“ Don’t cry, Gratia,” she sobbed, her own eyelashes wet with 
fast flowing tears. “/ love you, Gratia. The whole world 
sha’n’t make me believe you guilty.” 

The sweet, trusting child’s cries reached a yet sentient chord 
in the fast benumbing heart.' 

“I thank you for those words, Ida,” said the young girl. 
“I shall remember them always, wherever I may go.” 

“You will not leave me, Gratia?” 

“I must, dear Ida.” 

“But you promised papa you would always be my sister — 
always !” cried Ida, tightning her grasp round Gratia with an 
apprehensive movement. 

“Your father never could have foreseen the circumstances in 
which I am placed,” Gratia replied, sorrowfully. “Your 
grandmother herself has turned me out of doors. ” 

“ But it is not grandmamma’s house.” 

“Yes, it is — now, Ida.” 

The little girl was silent ; she felt the force of Gratia’s words. 

“ But you promised,” she reiterated, amid her sobs ; “you 
promised.” 

“I cannot help that, Ida and Gratia, reaching a crimson 
velvet case from her dressing-bureau, opened it, disclosing a 
superb set of large and lustrous pearls — necklace, bracelets, 
brooch, and ear-pendants. 4 ‘See, dearest 1” 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


149 


“ What are they?” Ida asked, lifting her heavy eyes to the 
other’s wan face. 

“The pearls your Uncle Ralph gave to me for a wedding- 
gift I wanted to return them to him, but he would not allow 
it. I cannot keep them now ; every pearl seems like a tear 
shed over his grave. Oh, Ida,” she wailed, clasping her hands 
wildly together, - “ and they dare to say that / murdered him !” 

1 * Keep the pearls, Gratia ; they are yours, ” said Ida, in ac- 
cents of awe. 

“Not for worlds !” Gratia exclaimed, passionately. “Neither 
the pearls nor this” tearing the diamond engagement-ring from 
her slender forefinger. “ I can cherish his memory without the 
aid of outward signs or tokens. Leave me now, Ida ; I must 
have a little solitude, to look my new future in the face and de- 
cide what step next to take.” 

“Where are you going, Gratia ?” 

“I don’t know — anywhere, away from here.” 

“ But what will you do?” 

Gratia laughed hoarsely. 

“I shall live , Ida, I don’t doubt. Only the favored children 
of fate are taken — those who, like little Raymond, are dear to 
the angels. ” 

“ Have you got money ?” 

“Enough for all my present needs, Ida. No,” as the little 
girl hesitatingly drew out her tiny gold-beaded purse, “I want 
no more. I have a good wardrobe, thanks to your father’s 
generosity, and a little store of money. And when he comes 
back, darling,” she added, wistfully, “you will tell him how 
wrongfully they suspected me.” 

For Gratia had never felt until that moment how very dear 
Colonel Hugo Falconer’s good opinion was to her. 

“ I will, Gratia, I will 1” the child answered, weeping passion- 
ately. “Oh, how cruel and unjust this world is ! Why, why 
cannot Uncle Ralph speak from the other world and tell us 
who it was that killed him ?” 


150 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


“We shall know some day,” Gratia solemnly answered, 
“and in the meanwhile I must bide my time. Good-by, 
darling !” and she gently put Ida from her. “Joanna, come 
and take your young mistress away. Obey Mrs. Falconer, and 
do not let her come to me again." 

But Ida clung with passionately tender affection to Gratia’s 
neck. 

“ When will you come back, Gratia?" 

“I cannot tell," Gratia replied. “My future seems to have 
passed entirely away from me. I am trying to trust in God's 
providence, but it seems very, very hard. Once more, dearest, 
good-by !" 

She pressed her lips in a long, lingering caress to Ida’s, and 
the next moment she was alone. 

The next morning, when Ida came to her friend’s room, 
Gratia had gone. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

AGAINST WIND AND TIDE. 

During the next few weeks Gratia Kempfield drank the bitter 
cup of humiliation to the very dregs. She had succeeded in 
finding a cheap though respectable lodging at the house of a 
woman who eked out her income by letting her upper rooms 
to people who boarded themselves — factory girls, sewing women, 
and the like, who were absent all day, and only wanted a decent 
roof to shelter their heads at night. Mrs. Carkley promised to 
interest herself in her new lodger’s future, but she had no very 
promising hopes to hold out. 

“Situations is scarce," said she, “ and wages is low. They 
say money is awful tight — seems to me it always is.” 

Mrsv Carkley was a tall, sallow-faced woman, who wore rusty- 
black garments in memory of a husband who had departed this 


GRATIA* 8 TRIALS. 


151 


life some twenty odd years before, and always spoke in a sub- 
dued voice, as if thoroughly ground down by the cares and 
troubles of life. 

Day after day Gratia sallied forth, eager to solve the riddle 
of her subsistence ; night after night she returned home weary 
and sick at heart, with every limb aching from the unwonted 
exertion. 

Jenny Jackson, a cheerful little sewing-machine girl, who 
occupied the room next to Gratia’s, heard that there was a 
vacancy in the establishment of Madame Sainter, the fashion- 
able Broadway milliner, and she went with Gratia as far as the 
side door. Madame Sainter herself sat at a tall desk studying 
the pages of her ledger and day-book, as Gratia was shown in 
by a frowsy-headed servant-maid. 

“Eh?” said madame, sticking the pen-handle in among her 
curl-papers. “ The situation, eh ? Exactly. Could you come 
'straight off? We are driven to death.” 

“At once, madame.” 

“And what can you do?” she asked. 

“Almost anything, madame. I am quick with my needle.” 

“I give a dollar and seventy-five cents a week,” said 
madame, belligerently, as if she expected a battle on the ques- 
tion of wages; “and my girls are provided with a lunch in the 
middle of the day — I can’t have ’em galloping home at the 
busiest time of day, and coming back all grease and tea- 
leaves. ” 

“I shall be contented with that, madame, until I have con- 
vinced you that I can earn more,” said Gratia, quietly. 

“Take off your things,” said madame, brusquely; “go 
into the other room, and Mademoiselle Theresine will set you 
at work at once. Stop, though — you haven’t told me your 
name.” 

And Madame Sainter dipped her pen in the ink, and looked 
at Gratia expectantly, ready to enter it in her books. 

“My name is Gratia Kempfield,” 


152 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


The pen dropped from madame’s fingers — she drew back in- 
stinctively. 

“You will not do for me,” she said, regarding Gratia with 
the horror wherewith one views a venomous reptile. 

“Why not, Madame Sainter ?” 

“I made a mourning hat for Mrs. Falconer last week, and 
she told me all about it. You will not do for me," reiterated 
madame, still holding back her skirts, as if fearing lest they 
should come in contact with Gratia s plain linsey dress. 

“What did they tell you?” asked Gratia, feeling herself turn 
sick and cold. 

“I don’t want a discussion,” said madame. “I suppose I 
have a right to employ or not to employ whom I please.” 

The next opportunity seemed more promising. It was one 
which Gratia had caught a glimpse of through the advertising 
colums of a morning newspaper — the situation of companion to 
an elderly lady. The address was in a quiet, old-fashioned 
street, where the very cart-wheels had a sleepy, respectable 
sound as they bumped over the paving-stones. 

Mrs. Osard was the lady who had advertised — a fat, cozy, 
white-haired matron in spectacles and black satin, who was 
very deaf, very quiet, and very much addicted to wanting the 
newspapers read to her every day and all day. 

“You’ve got a good, clear voice, child !” she said, with one 
hand to her ear, as Gratia shouted out her claims to considera- 
tion, “and you don’t run your words together, as half of ’em 
do. I like that. Do you like reading aloud ?” 

Gratia said she did — she would almost have answered “yes” 
if Mrs. Osard had asked her if she liked gathering nettles or 
being broiled on a gridiron. 

“Yes, yes, that’s good,” said the old lady, nodding her head 
until the silver curls on either side of her temples nodded too. 
“ I’m not very exacting — all I want of you is too read to me, 
mend my laces, and look a little bit after the housekeeping — 
servants need a mistress’ eye over them all the time nowadays — 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


153 


and drive with me in the park. The doctor says daily exercise 
is of great importance to me. And I shall want you to take 
Flora, my spaniel, out for a walk, between twelve and one, in 
pleasant weather. ” 

“Yes, ma’am, all those things I could do,” said Gratia, 
feeling her heart warm more and more to the kindly old 
woman. 

“And I give twenty dollars a month — but of course I shall 
always expect to give you a nice little present now and then, if 
you suit me,” added Mrs. Osard, patting her spaniel’s head. 
“ Now about your references.” 

Gratia gave Mrs. Homer’s name, rather hesitatingly. The 
old lady wrote it down in a tiny mother-of-pearl set of tablets 
that lay on the table beside her. 

“You may come to-morrow, my dear,” she said, “and I'll 
make all necessary inquiries in the meantime.” 

But Mrs. Osard was old, and there was a good deal of inertia 
about her, and the January weather was nippingly cold. 

“ I dare say it’s all right,” said the old lady. “She wouldn’t 
give the reference if she wasn’t prepared to have a good account 
given of her, and I can call on this Mrs. Homer at any time. 
She has got a face like a flower, and I always did believe in 
faces. ” 

So when Gratia came the next day her room was ready, and 
the old lady was waiting eagerly to hear the papers read. 

After the stormy sea of trial on which the poor girl had been 
tossed about, Mrs. Osard’s cozy parlor seemed like a haven of 
perfect peace. For the first day or two she could hardly realize 
that she had a home ; but afterward she began better to com- 
prehend the fullness of her good fortune. 

Mrs. Osard cared little for society, and went nowhere except 
for her daily drive through the charming roads of the Central 
Park. She received but few friends, and they were mostly old 
ladies of her own stamp. 

Gratia had jfist finished dusting the antique curiosities, which 


154 


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made the old lady’s parlor like a miniature museum, one dreary 
February morning, and the newspapers lay in a heap on the 
table ready for the morning session of reading. 

“That’s right, my dear,” said Mrs. Osard, nodding her head, 
as she watched Gratia’s delicate silk duster. “ I never had any 
one tidy my rooms as neatly as you do it. There’s a deal in hav- 
ing a knack. I always said so. ” 

The maid whose business it was to attend the door entered 
just then, and laid a visiting-card on the table. Mrs. Osard 
scrutinized it through her gold spectacles. 

“Ask her to walk in, Rosa,” said she, rather slowly, 
“though I must confess I would rather have had a chance 
to read the papers before 1 received calls. No, Gratia ; don’t 
go. You may as well stay ; I shall not be detained long.” 

Gratia accordingly resumed her avocation, not even turning 
her head at the entrance of the visitor, until the shrill, high- 
pitched tone of a well-known voice caused her to start as if a 
bomb-shell had exploded close to her ear. 

“My dear friend,” it uttered, “ do you want to be murdered 
in your bed ?” 

And Gratia knew in an instant that peace, home, safety, all 
were gone. Alberta Falconer had tracked her out once more. 

“ Mercy on me, my dear !” cried Mrs. Osard, jumping up as 
briskly as her corpulence would allow, and looking under her 
arm-chair as if she expected to see a man with a bludgeon con- 
cealed there ; “what do you mean ?” 

“You may leave the room,” said Alberta, turning authori- 
tatively to Gratia. “Your mistress wishes to be alone with me 
for a while. ” 

Gratia obeyed without a word of remonstrance. She might 
tell her own story, but she knew it would not be believed. 

An hour afterward Rosa came mincingly up stairs, and a 
single glance at her averted eyes and pursed-up lips convinced 
Gratia that the whole household was in possession of the tale of 
her fancied guilt and crime. 


GRATIA 8 TRIALS. 


155 


“Mrs. Osard wishes to see you in the parlor, Miss Kemp- 
field,” she said. 

Gratia obeyed the summons, nor was she surprised to see 
Rosa follow her into the room and take up her position, with a 
sort of ostentatious guardianship, back of her mistress’ chair. 
Mrs. Osard herself looked nervous and frightened. 

“ Miss Kempfield,” she began, “I have just heard news that 
deeply shocks and surprises me.” 

Gratia bowed in silence. 

“You never told me,” pursued Mrs. Osard, “ that you had 
lived at Mrs. Falconer’s.” 

“No, madam.” 

“Nor that — that — . But,” said the old lady, suddenly jerk- 
ing herself up, as it were, “ I do not see any use in prolonging 
this interview, which must be quite as painful to you as to my- 
self. I merely wish to tell you that you are from this moment 
dismissed my service.” 

“Mrs. Osard!” burst forth Gratia, forgetting all her wise 
resolutions, “ I am as innocent as yourself. I never harmed a 
hair of his head ; pray, pray, believe me.” 

Mrs. Osard looked more frightened than ever. 

“Rosa,” she said, in a hurried whisper, “ycu had better ring 
for the coachman ; it is well to be provided for any emergency. 
Pray, Miss Kempfield, spare me this unnecessary agitation ; it 
will be of no avail. Here are your wages for a month in ad- 
vance ; I believe I owe you this much, in consideration of the 
sudden dismissal. 

Gratia silently accepted the money which the good old lady 
pressed upon her, and, with a murmured word of adieu, left 
Mrs. Osard’s presence. 

“I declare,” cried the old lady, when the door was closed, 
“ I feel sorry for her, for all it’s such an awful story. Her face 
is so sweet and girlish. But then faces are deceitful.” 


156 


GRATIA S TRIALS. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

SITUATION AS GOVERNESS. 

“Back again, be you ?” said Mrs. Carkley, when Gratia 
once more made her appearance and requested to re-engage 
her old room for the present. “Well, I did tell Jane Smith 
there wouldn’t no luck follow your going away from here on a 
Friday.” 

In vain Gratia haunted intelligence offices, answered advert 
tisements, and watched with piteous anxiety for every possible 
opportunity to earn her daily bread in a decent and creditable 
way ; no opening seemed to present itself, and in the mean- 
while her wretched little stock of money dwindled and grew 
less and less, in spite of her endeavors to eke it out by the 
strictest economy. 

Gratia had wept herself to sleep one night, when a soft, 
warm hand was laid on her forehead. She started up, believing 
herself to be still in a dream. 

“ How light you sleep,” said Jenny Smith, laughing. “I’m 
late to-night, because there is a press of extra work on hand ; 
but better late than never, as the proverb says, and that’s just 
what I thought about you.” 

“About me, Jenny?” 

“Yes — about a place for you, you know. I’ve heard of 
one I guess you’d like, and I thought maybe you’d sleep 
better if I told you about it to-night. Mrs. Pennilon wants a 
governess for her four boys, and I believe you’re the very one 
for the place. ” 

“ How old are they?” said Gratia, a little doubtfully. 

“Oh, the oldest is only thirteen. Such young Turks !” said 
Jenny. “They come down to the factory sometimes, and you 
would think it was Bedlam broken loose. They need a gov- 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


157 


erness if ever children did. Ellen Sypher is Mrs. Pennilon’s 
cousin — she’s forewoman in our room — and she was telling 
me about it. So I mentioned you, and Ellen’s of opinion you 
would just about suit, particularly if you don’t want a very 
high salary.” 

“I shall be thankful to earn anything,” cried Gratia, fer- 
vently. 

•‘So I told her,” said Jenny. “And you’re to call there to- 
morrow morning at nine o’clock. So now good-night, because 
likely I’ll be off before you are up in the morning.” 

And Jenny went off, refusing even to listen to Gratia's words 
of earnest thankfulness. 

That night Gratia slept more sweetly by far than she had 
done since leaving Mrs. Osard’s, and the first thought in her 
head as she waked in the morning was of something hopeful 
ahead. 

The name “Pennilon,” in old English letters, on a mam- 
moth silver-plated shield, stared Gratia in the face for full five 
minutes, during which she stood waiting for some one to 
answer the bell. 

At last the door was opened by a coarsely dressed maid, and 
Gratia asked to see Mrs. Pennilon, and was shown into a gaudy 
reception-room. 

Presently Mrs. Pennilon, a fat, vulgar matron, trundled into 
the room. 

“So you’re Miss Kempfield, are you ?” said she, patronizingly 
motioning her young visitor to be seated. 

Gratia inclined her head. 

“My cousin Ellen, at the factory, mentioned you to me. 
What can you teach ?” 

“I presume,” said Gratia, “that I am qualified to take the 
entire charge of the education of any children under thirteen or 
fourteen — except Latin. I never have devoted myself to the 
study of the dead languages.” 

“Oh, that don't signify,” said Mrs. Pennilon, loftily. “ No- 


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body cares about those dry, fusty old languages nowadays. 
Arithmetic, and algebra, and botany, and such — them is the 
studies I and Mr. Pennilon approves of.” 

“I could teach those,” said Gratia. 

“And grammar, and spelling-book, and the alphabet for 
little Francis. My youngest has always been a delicate child, 
and we haven’t put him to his book.” 

“Certainly,” said Gratia. “ How old is he?” 

“Oh, he’s nine,” said Mrs. Pennilon. “But he has always 
disliked learning. I hope you will make it more attractive to 
him than his other instructors have done.” 

“ I will try,” said Gratia. 

“And the piano?” said Mrs. Pennilon. “My Roswell — 
he’s the second child — he has the greatest taste for music. You 
should hear him play ‘ Dixie ’ with one finger ; and he has 
picked it up entirely by ear.” 

“I can teach the elements of music,” said Gratia. 

“I want him to learn tunes at once,” pursued Mrs. Pennilon. 
“I never did like dry exercises.” 

“Very well,” assented Gratia. “Of course I should put 
myself at once under your direction in all these matters.” 

“Of course — of course,” said Mrs. Pennilon. “Them that 
pays should judge — that’s my and Pennilon’s motto. But that 
ain’t the most important thing. Can you speak French ?” 

“Yes, madam.” 

“ Because it is very essential that our governess should be an 
efficient in the French language. T, and Pennilon, and the 
boys go to Europe next month.” 

“Indeed?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pennilon ; “and as we are none of us no 
great hands at picking up a foreign language, you will be of 
use. ” 

All Mrs. Pennilon’s questions having been satisfactorily an- 
swered, the question of salary was broached. 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


159 


“Considering all the privileges, twenty-five dollars a quarter 
is all I can afford to give,” said the lady. 

“A hundred dollars a year!” repeated Gratia, slowly. 
“ That is a very small salary.” 

“But you know you haven’t no recommend!” cried Mrs. 
Pennilon, forgetting the exigencies of the English language in 
her excitement. 

Finally Gratia concluded to take the position at the salary 
named, as she did not know when another opportunity would 
offer. 

“Can you come immediately?” Mrs. Pennilon asked. 

“At once, if you would prefer it.” 

Mrs. Pennilon rang the bell. 

“ Send up the young gentlemen,” she said, loftily, and with- 
out waiting for any further summons, the “young gentlemen” 
tumbled spontaneously into the room, an animated heap of 
arms and legs. 

“This is your new governess, boys,” said their mother, with 
a proud glance at her four stubble-headed, freckle-faced, wide- 
mouthed urchins. 

Gratia entered upon the duties of her new position that after- 
noon, and two months later, when the May sunshine was 
brightening over the land, she stood on the deck of an outward 
bound steamer, en route for Havre and the continent ; while 
close beside her, Francis Pennilon was devouring peanuts, 
Roswell was engaged in seeing how nearly he could balance 
himself on the gangway rail, and Adolphus and Haddy fought 
for a “picture paper” some one had left on deck. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE MEETING AT MELWORTH HALL. 

Travel, regarded in itself, may be infinitely agreeable, but 
travel with a purse-proud master, a vulgar mistress, and four 


160 


GRATIA S TRIALS. 


unruly boys, has its admixture of the unpleasant, as Gratia 
found to her cost long before the Madagascar reached the port 
of Havre. 

The Pennilon party remained just a week in London — such 
a hurried week of sight-seeing that Gratia felt as if it were a fe- 
vered dream, and Roswell grumbled that the Tower of London 
and Tussaud’s Waxworks were all fermenting together in his 
brain. 

Warwickshire was the first county in which Mr. Pennilon 
deigned to pause — an antique country town, called Cheyne Regis, 
through which murmured the drowsy tides of a beautiful river. 
There was an ancient church to be seen here, full of quaint il- 
luminations, and moss-grown tombs, and an old ruin on the 
hill-side, and that was all.” 

“ What made papa stop at this slow place ?” said Hadley, 
yawning fearfully, the morning after their arrival. “ There’s 
nothing going on, not even a circus.” 

Gratia could not help smiling at the boy’s idea of lively 
“goings on.” 

“ I believe,” said she, “ that that rich hardware man in Lon- 
don ” 

“Old Knives-and-Forks ?” interrupted Adolphus. “You 
needn’t look so solemn, Miss Kempfield ; it’s what his coachee 
called him. I drove all round the square alongside of the 
coachee, while papa was in the parlor with the old man. He 
let me take the reins twice, and I gave him a shilling — I did.” 

“ His name was Carstell,” said Gratia, gravely; “and he 
gave your papa a card to admit him to look at a very splendid 
country place here — Melworth Hall, it is called — where there are 
some very fine statues and pictures.” 

“Hang the statues and pictures!” said the irreverent 
Adolphus. “ Pm going after trout with the landlord’s brother. 
We’re going to take our lunch with us, and bring home trout 
enough for all the family supper, see if we don’t.” 

And Master Adolphus kept to his resolution, so that the 


GRATIA 1 S TRIALS. 


161 


party for Melworth Hall were forced to set off, in a jingling, 
open carriage, without him. 

It was a long drive, and not a pleasant one, although the 
lanes were starred with daisies, and overhung by trails of dog- 
roses and honeysuckle, while blossoming orchards freighted the 
air with perfume, and wheat meadows, walled in by peaceful 
woods, afforded the loveliest of perspectives. Mrs. Pennilon’s 
corns were troublesome, and she had spilled a cup of coffee on 
her new gray traveling-dress that morning. Mr. Pennilon was 
absorbed in a sheet of statistics concerning the steel trade in 
Sheffield ; and Francis, Roswell, and Hadley were fighting for 
the best place in the carriage. Gratia herself was compelled to 
ride backward, which always made her uncomfortable ; so, upon 
the whole, she was not sorry when they drew up in the grounds 
of Melworth Hall. 

“Oh, what splendid trees !” cried Gratia, looking up at the 
century-old elms, beneath which the carriage rolled, with 
glimpses of green, shaven turf, and here and there a sparkling 
fountain, a statue, or a sheet of ornamental water in the distance. 

“ If you would be a little less theatrical, Miss Kempfield, and 
pay a little more attention to the children,” said Mrs. Pennilon, 
tartly, “ I think there would be less danger of Francis falling 
out of the carriage. '' 

Melworth Hall was a splendid old mansion — a picturesque 
jumble of two or three different ages and styles of architecture, 
with stained glass oriels, inlaid floors, and broad staircases lead- 
ing to libraries, conservatories, and picture-galleries. 

Gratia had lingered in one of the anterooms to look at a 
stand of passion-flowers and azaleas, while the rest of the family, 
with the exception of Hadley, had proceeded to the grand draw- 
ing-room under the marshaling of the staid old housekeeper, 
when a party of ladies and gentlemen came r down the private 
stair-way beyond, the door leading to which Mrs, Hopwith had, 
through some inadvertence, left slightly ajar. 


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“ Oh, Miss Kempfield, look! look !” cried Hadley, jerking 
her dress. “What a pretty green velvet riding-habit !’ 

Involuntarily Gratia lifted her eyes from the azalea stand, and 
found herself face to face with Colonel Hugo Falconer. 

She knew him in an instant, and his recognition of her was 
almost equally quick, although the year of their separation had 
altered her in more respects than one. He had left her almost 
a child, fair to look upon, it is true, but, nevertheless, imma- 
ture ; she had grown into a beautiful woman, with dreamy, 
hazel eyes, curls like coiled sunshine, and lips as rare and red 
as strawberries. Neither had dreamed of seeing the other ; it 
was like the strange, sudden apparition that sometimes comes 
to pass in a dream, and for a moment both stood still. 

The next minute he had detached himself from the party and 
stood at her side. 

“Gratia, my child ! my adopted daughter! how come you 
to be here ?” 

Her first impulse was to throw herself into his arms, with a 
tempest of glad tears ; her next to shrink away. Surely he 
could not have heard from the United States — he could not 
know that he was addressing the woman who was said to be 
the murderess of his uncle ! 

“I — I am with friends,” she faltered. “We are looking at 
the hall.” 

“And I am staying in the house,” said Colonel Falconer, 
resolutely retaining the hand she would fain have drawn away. 
“Are you at Cheyne Regis or Melworth ? And how does it 
happen tha you are in England ? My darling, do you know 
that you have grown very beautiful ?” 

“ Gratia turned red and pale with contending emotions. 

“You must not speak so to me, sir,” she faltered ; “you do 
not know all.” 

“What is it that I do not know? Nay” — as a nattily at- 
tired groom came to whisper to him that Mrs. Melworth was 
waiting — “I must not linger longer now. Where are you 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


163 


staying? Give me your address, and I will call this afternoon 
at five. ” 

And almost before she knew what she was doing, Gratia had 
spoken the name of the White Hart Inn at Cheyne Regis, and 
he had pressed her hand and gone. 

‘‘Well, now,” cried Hadley, who had stood open-mouthed 
and staring all this while, “I'm blessed if this ain’t a regular 
adventure, as good as anything in the dime novels. Who is it, 
Miss Kempfield ? An English lord ? And how did you come 
to be on such jolly good terms with him ?” 

“ Hadley,” cried Gratia, turning suddenly toward him, “pray 
do not speak of this to any one. ” 

“Why shouldn’t I ? Where’s the harm ? I’m going to tell 
mamma this very minute. No, I’m not either,” suddenly melt- 
ing in his mood at sight of Gratia’s tears. “ Don’t cry, Miss 
Kempfield ; I’ll be as mum as a mouse.” 

“Miss Kempfield,” said Mrs. Pennilon, sharply, when they 
had at last reached their room at the inn, “do come here and 
unlace my boots ; my feet feel as if they were on fire. What 
horrid, stuffy little rooms these are ; and people talk so much 
of the comfort of English inns ! I’ve two minds to ask Pen- 
nilon to go away this very afternoon. We could catch the night 
express at Daylesford, I am very sure.” 

Gratia’s face brightened. 

“Oh, Mrs. Pennilon,” she stammered, “ if you only would P 

“What is it to you whether we go or stay?” snapped the 
matron. “You are paid to be satisfied wherever we are.” 

“ Yes,” faltered poor Gratia, bending once more to her work, 
“but — but I agree with you that these old places are very 
wearisome.” 

“I didn’t say anything of the sort,” said the lady, with acri- 
mony; “and if I did, I don’t want you to agree with me. 
You are too forward in your opinions, Miss Kempfield. We 
shall make a point of staying at Cheyne Regis through the rest 
of the week, in any event now /’’ 


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GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

LONEL FALCONER CALLS. 

“ I will not see him ! I cannot see him !” Gratia Falconer 
reiterated to herself as she sat at the window, after dinner, 
mending a zig-zag rent in one of the velveteen knees of Master 
Francis’ knickerbockers. "‘He spoke kindly to me at first, it 
is true, because he was taken by surprise ; but when he comes 
to remember all the weight of guilt and crime which people 
have dared to lay upon my shoulders, he will despise me and 
shrink from he.” 

As these thoughts careered through her mind the clock struck 
four. Gratia rose hurriedly, with a changing color, and put 
away her unfinished work. 

“Roswell,” she called to the boy who was listlessly exam- 
ining a book of old-fashioned prints, “don’t you want to go 
for a walk with me among those hazel copses down by the 
wood ?” 

Roswell jumped up with alacrity, and they started out. 

While they were in the green depths of the hazel copse, 
Colonel Hugo Falconer was walking leisurely along the country 
lane which led from Melworth Hall to Cheyne Regis, turning 
over in his mind all the possibilities which could by any chance 
have brought Gratia Kempfield to these English shores. For, 
strange as it may appear, Colonel Falconer had not yet learned 
more of the particulars of his uncle’s death than the mere fact 
that he had been mysteriously murdered, and this had come 
to him through the chance mention of a business corre- 
spondent. 

The package of home letters containing all the details had 
been delayed until after the sailing of the mail steamer, and 
reached London the day after he had left it for Constantinople, 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


165 


where he was in treaty with a firm of Greek bankers. On his 
return he had stopped at one or two country houses whither 
his correspondence had been forwarded, with the exception of 
this single packet, which lay under a tin box at his London 
agent’s, peacefully accumulating cobwebs and dust. The latter 
epistles of course took for granted that the absent son and 
brother was acquainted with all the particulars mentioned in 
the former, and so to this minute Colonel Falconer was in ig- 
norance of the fact that Gratia had left his home. 

“It couldn’t be possible/’ he argued within himself, “that 
Ida has quarreled with Gratia. They were too similar in dis- 
position and temperament, too entirely devoted to each other. 
I cannot for an instant believe they could seriously differ. It is 
more probable by far that she has been driven away by the 
whims and caprices of my mother or Alberta, or possibly ” — 
and his brow instinctively darkened as the hypothesis crossed 
his mind — “she has been annoyed by my brother Robert’s ill- 
advised admiration. The girl is pretty enough to account for 
almost any such aberration. I never could have supposed she 
would have blossomed out into such rich, perfect beauty.” 

Thus meditating, Colonel Falconer reached the White Hart, 
at Cheyne Regis, and gave the landlady his card. 

“For Miss Kempfield,” he said. 

Mrs. Powell made an humble obeisance before the dignity of 
“one of the gentlemen from the Hall.” 

“Yes, please, sir, it’s Mrs. Pennilon’s governess, hain’t it, 
sir ? Please walk into the parlor.” 

In a few minutes Mrs. Powell returned. 

“Please, sir, Miss Kempfield ain’t in.” 

“Not in ? Are you sure?” 

“ Yes, sir, quite sure — she be out walking with one of the 
young gentlemen.” 

Colonel Falconer looked at his watch ; it was just four 
minutes after five. 


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“Can I see Mrs. Pennilon?” he asked. That is the name, 
is it not, of the lady with whom Miss Kempfield is traveling?” 

“Yes, sir, that is the name,” said Mrs. Powell, and again she 
trudged up stairs. 

Mrs. Pennilon, although she was righteously indignant at the 
idea of her governess having “followers,” was not a little 
pleased at the intelligence that the gentleman from the Hall 
wished to see her. 

“ I hope I have not inconvenienced you, madam,” said 
Colonel Falconer, courteously, as Mrs. Pennilon rustled into 
the room. “I only wished to make some inquiries of you 
about your governess, Miss Kempfield.” 

Mrs. Pennilon’s face flushed redder than before. 

“ Has she been complaining of her situation ?” she demanded, 
angrily. 

“Not in the least, madam,” said Colonel Falconer, looking 
somewhat surprised. “ But I chanced to see her at Mel worth 
Hall this morning, and made an appointment to call this after- 
noon at five. Do you know which way she has gone ?” 

“No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Pennilon, primly drawing herself 
up ; “ and if I did I should not think it my duty to tell you.” 

Colonel Falconer’s face was more and more perplexed in its 
expression. 

“Perhaps you are unaware, Mrs. Pennilon,” he said, “that 
I am a very old friend of your children’s instructress — that I 
stand almost in the relationship of a father to her ?” 

“ In-deed !” said Mrs. Pennilon, with a toss of her head. 

“ Can you tell me how soon she will return ?” 

“No, I can’t.” 

Colonel Falconer stood in silence for a moment ; then he 
hurriedly penciled a few words upon a card. 

“ Will you oblige me by giving her this, madam ?” he asked ; 
“and I will no longer intrude upon your valuable time. 

Mrs. Pennilon took the card as if it were full-freighted with 
small-pox, typhoid fever, or some other virulent disease, and 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


167 


held it between the thum and finger of her left hand, as she 
stiffly returned the gentleman’s parting bow. 

The instant the door closed behind him, she scrutinized the 
writing on the card, which bore the name “Hugo Falconer,” 
in delicately engraved script letters, and below, the words : 

“I will come to-morrow morning, at eleven. Dear Gratia, you will not 
refuse to see me then ?” 

“I never knew anything so cool in all my born days !” cried 
Mrs. Pennilon, indignantly tearing the card and scattering its 
fragments to the winds. 

Gratia Kempfield, standing in the friendly shadows of the 
hazel copse saw Hugo Falconer pass by shortly afterward, walk- 
ing slowly, with his hands behind his back, and his eyes fixed 
intently on the ground, tall and handsome as an Apollo ! How 
her heart warmed toward the gallant gentleman in the one 
minute in which she trusted her eyes to gaze upon his manly 
beauty. She was almost tempted to step out from the bowery 
screen of the hazel bushes, and tell him all the secrets of her 
breaking heart. But, as she made a step forward, a gay 
barouche swept down the road with two lovely girls leaning out, 
and the horses drew up with a jerk. 

“We are just in time to drive you home, Colonel Falconer,” 
said Alicia Mel worth, gayly. “Are you not obliged to us for 
saving you such a long, warm walk ?” 

So Gratia's chance passed by, and her hero was whirled away 
toward the stately old towers of Melworth Hall. 

Master Roswell persisted in staying to fish with his eldest 
brother, and our heroine walked home alone. Mrs. Pennilon 
met her, almost at the threshold of the inn. 

“You had a fine visitor since you went away, Miss Kemp- 
field,” she said, with satirical emphasis on all the most obnox- 
ious words. 

“A visitor, Mrs. Pennilon?” 

“ Altogether too fine for such plain, respectable people as we 


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are, ” viciously went on Mrs. Pennilon, and I do not think it 
safe for me and Pennelon any longer to retain such a very 
attractive young person, as you seem to be, in our service. A 
month’s warning or a month’s wages is the understood rule, I 
believe, so you’ll find the money on your table up stairs.” 

“Mrs. Pennilon,” broke faintly from Gratia’s quivering 
lips. 

“There’s no use ‘Mrs. Penniloning’ me” said the irate 
matron. “Iam not a gentleman, to be taken in by your fine 
airs and graces. I am only a respectable American mother ; 
and I cannot have my son’s morals corrupted by a designing 
schemer like you. You are dismissed from my service, Miss 
Kempfield. ” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“where is she?” 

Gratia went slowly up stairs to her room feeling as if some 
sudden blow had descended upon her. She knew Mrs. Pen- 
nilon’s vindictive and unreasoning temper too well to venture 
to hope for any good effects arising from remonstrance or ex- 
postulation. Homeless, friendless, and in a strange land — did 
it not seem as if the cup of her tribulations was filled to the 
brim ? 

Mrs. Pennilon’s service had been no sinecure — her exactions 
had been almost boundless, and her temper trying in the last 
degree, but not the less for all that she had been a sort of 
protectress to the motherless, lonely girl, and now that this 
aegis had been withdrawn, Gratia felt bitterly her solitary con- 
dition. 

“ I must not think any more about it just now,” Gratia mur- 
mured to herself, “for I am so tired, and my head aches so 


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169 


fearfully. I will lie down for a little while and perhaps I shall 
feel better. ” 

When the next morning dawned she was unable to lift her 
throbbing head from her pillow. 

“I hops you aren’t going to be sick, miss,” the kind-hearted 
landlady said, as she brought a cup of coffee to Gratia’s bed- 
side. 

“Oh, no, only my head aches a little,” Gratia answered, 
wearily. “Thanks, but I could not swallow anything.” 

“ Only just a drop, miss,” pleaded Mrs. Powell. “It’ll do 
ye a power of good. There’s nothing like good, strong coffee 
to cure a headache. I’ve done my very best to stop them halla- 
ballowin' boys gallopin’ up and down the hall past your door, 
but it’s a rainy morning, and they can’t go out doors to play, 
and you’d think that Mrs. Pennilon hadn’t no narves o’ her 
own, not to speak o’ other people’s. ” 

“Let them play — they do not disturb me,” said Gratia, 
drinking a little of the flavorless draught to pacify the well- 
meaning landlady. “ Perhaps I can sleep a little while longer, 
and then I shall feel better.” 

And Mrs. Powell tiptoed out of the room, secretly wrathful 
at Mrs. Pennelon’s lack of what she called “nateral feelin’.” 

At eleven, punctual to the stroke of the clock, Colonel Fal- 
coner presented himself, through all the pouring sheets of rain, 
at the White Hart. Mrs. Pennilon, who had her eye on the 
strip of road visible from the front window, ever since break- 
fast, was in the parlor as he entered, sitting straight and stiff, 
with folded hands, and a countenance expressive of unutterable 
things. 

“Can I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Kempfield this 
morning?” the gentleman asked, politely, after acknowledging 
Mrs. Pennilon ’s presence by a bow, and a few words of matter- 
of-course greeting. 

“I have dismissed Miss Kempfield from my service,” Mrs. 


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Pennilon answered, fixing her eyes hard upon one particular 
green leaf in the carpet pattern. 

“ Dismissed her ?” Colonel Falconer’s eyes flashed. “For 
what reason, may I ask ?” 

“ I do not feel called upon to render a reason to any one that 
may ask me,” said Mrs. Pennilon ; “but I have no objection 
to telling you, sir, since you ask me, that it is because I do not 
approve of her picking up gentlemen acquaintances upon such 
very short notice. ” 

Hugo Falconer bit his lip to restrain the cutting words he 
would like to have spoken. 

“Do you happen to know, madam,” he said, striving for 
outward self-control, “ how long we have known each other ?” 

“No, sir, I do not ; nor do I wish to know.” 

“Where is she ?” asked Falconer. 

“I prefer to give no information on the subject.” 

Colonel Falconer looked at her. If she had only been a 
man, how much gratification it would have afforded him to have 
knocked her down. But being a woman, he was debarred from 
that privilege. 

“ Is she still with you ?” 

“ I told you that I had dismissed her, sir,” tartly enunciated 
Mrs. Pennilon. 

“ Is she in this house ?” 

“No,” Mrs. Pennilon answered, laying to her conscience by 
way of salvo, the fact that the apartment her quondam gov- 
erness occupied was not actually in the building where they 
were, but formed par.t of a sort of wing running out toward the 
stable-yard. 

“Then she has gone to London ?” 

Mrs. Pennilon neither assented or dissented as he spoke ; she 
simply stared harder than ever at the pattern of the carpet. 

He took up his hat. 

“That you are clearly misapprehending this whole matter, 
madam, is sufficiently evident to me,” he said, “ Perhaps your 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


171 


own conscience may hereafter reproach you for the course you 
have taken. At all events, I cannot refrain from expressing my 
opinion that you have acted in an unchristian and unwo- 
manly manner toward this young girl, to whom you should 
have been a second mother. Good-morning." 

And he walked out of the room and out of the house, re- 
solved to proceed at once to London in search of the beautiful 
girl who had contrived to work her way so near to his heart. 

He walked straight to the railway station, there scribbling a 
brief note to his friends at Melworth Hall, containing the simple 
piece of information that an unexpected emergency called him 
suddenly to London for a few days. This note written and 
dispatched, he inquired of the ticket agent as to whether such 
a young person as he described Miss Kempfield had taken a 
ticket by the London express that morning at eight. 

“I don't know any sich in particular, sir. There’s a-many 
comes and goes," he said, rubbing his nose. “ Just as like as 
not I may’ve sold her the very ticket, and not a-noticed it." 

Colonel Falconer shrugged his shoulders impatiently. 

‘ ‘ When does the next express go ?” 

“Not before four, sir. There is an accommodation first." 

Colonel Falconer looked first at his watch, and then out at 
the storm-beaten world outside the railway station. 

“ My poor, poor little Gratia ! how cruelly she must have 
been stung by that woman’s taunts before she would flee away 
like this ! How women can be so unfeeling toward one an- 
other passes my comprehension. And she is winning and 
beautiful, too." 

Alas 1 therein lay Gratia Kempfield’s first and chiefest offense, 
had Colonel Falconer but known it. 

Three hours afterward Colonel Falconer was in London. 

His first move on the complicated chess-board of affairs was 
to go straight to the office of his lawyer. 

Mr. Tessell was a smoke-dried little bachelor, devoted to his 
profession, and his profession alone, whose house adjoined the 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


1?2 

dingy little den he called his “office,” and who was scarcely 
ever away from home. 

Late though it was, the colonel found him smoking a huge 
meerschaum in the window which commanded a view of a for- 
lorn brick-paved court. 

“Walk in, colonel, walk in!” said Mr. Tessell, who was 
never surprised at anything. “And now, colonel, as I haven't 
the vanity to suppose you are here without an object, what can 
I do for you this evening ?” 

“I want you find a young lady for me,” said Hugo, 
abruptly. 

“Do you?” said Mr. Tessell, in no way amazed. “Who, 
and when ?” 

And he listened, with his head on one side like a wise old 
raven, while the American gentleman told his story. 

“ Rather a hard task you have set me,” he said, after a few 
minutes' cogitation; “but nothing is impossible. We’ll do 
our best. By the way, here is a packet you should have re- 
ceived before this.” 

“A packet?” echoed Hugo. 

“Letters and things,” said the lawyer. “Wait a minute, 
until I ring for candles — this time of day is neither light nor 
darkness — and then you can look over them at your leisure, 
while I just jot down a few notes upon the case you have laid 
before me.” 

And then Hugo Falconer read the long-mislaid letters from 
New York, which related, in all their revolting details, the story 
of his uncle's murder, and told upon whom the burden of sus- 
picion had unanimously fallen. 

Hugo sat staring down at the papers long after he had per- 
used them over and over again ; but at last he twisted them 
into a spiral coil and threw them into the wreathing tongues of 
flame that leaped and danced in the grate. 

“Gratia Kempfield a murderess !” he muttered, between his 
tightly set teeth. “ I will never believe it of that girl, who had 


GRATIA* 8 TRIALS. 


173 


the face of an angel and the heart of a white dove ! They have 
driven her out into the world among them ; but I am not one 
to abandon my adopted child so readily. There is some 
hideous mystery, which will eventually be made clear — some 
foul play, which cannot always remain undetected. Gratia is 
innocent, and I shall make it my life’s object to prove it to the 
world. Mr. Tessell 1” 

The lawyer looked up, with vague eyes that seemed intro- 
verted, as it were, as if they were looking over the array of facts 
stored in the inner recesses of his brain. 

“I want you to lose no time in this search. Circumstances 
have occurred which render haste a matter of the greatest im- 
portance. If the police can help you, don’t hesitate to summon 
their aid. If the detective bureau can be of any use, let no 
expenses be spared.” 

“Just so,” said Mr. Tessell; “just so. Your wishes shall 
be carried into immediate execution, Colonel Falconer.” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

LEFT ALONE. 

Gratia Kempfield lay in the little bedroom in the White 
Hart Inn, when a sunbeam fell athwart her face. She at- 
tempted to raise her hand as if to ward it off, but the hand fell 
heavily again. 

“Don’t-ee worry, dear — don’t-ee !” said Mrs. Powell, mildly. 
“Polly, draw that there dratted curtain. Have a drink now — 
there’s a darling !” 

Gratia drank obediently before she ventured to ask : 

“ What is the matter? Have I been sick ?” 

“That you have,” answered Mrs. Powell, carefully wiping 
the edge of the tumbler with a snow-white napkin. “Two 
blessed weeks you have lain here, clean out of your head, and 


174 


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me and Polly waiting upon you — ‘ brain fever’ the doctor says — 
and it's a downright blessing you’ve got your poor, wandering 
wits back again. Here comes Sarah Ann with a bowl of chicken 
broth, piping hot, you’re to swallow.” 

“ Where is Mrs. Pennilon ?” the young girl asked, faintly. 

“ My dear, she’s gone,” said the good woman ; “and what 
I said then I say now — good riddance to bad rubbage. Gone 
back to her native country, I hope, with all them plaguey 
young uns, and airs, and graces, and pickin’ the bill to pieces, 
a9 if Powell and me had set out to cheat ’em from the very 
beginning. Not but what I’d ha’ forgiv’ her all the rest if she 
hadn’t left you behind just like a sick poll-parrot. ‘ If she dies, 
landlord,’ says she, ‘she’s got money enough in her purse to 
bury her decent; if not, she’ll take care of herself; it’s no 
business of ours.’ Now take this broth, and go right to sleep ; 
that’s my pretty dearie !” 

And while Gratia was trying to tell the good woman how 
impossible it was for her to slumber again, she drifted peace- 
fully off to sleep. 

It was the middle of June before Gratia Kempfield was quite 
restored to health and strength once again. Mrs. Pennilon, 
she discovered, on examining her simple effects, had left a 
quarter’s wages behind, in addition to a trifling sum which 
Gratia possessed, so that she had something wherewith to recom- 
pense her good host and hostesses in some degree at least. Five 
pounds was all that Mrs. Powell could be persuaded to take. 

As Gratia had now nearly recovered her health, she felt the 
necessity of looking for employment again, and she bade her 
kind friends adieu, starting out with all her belongings in a 
small satchel. Her purse was very low, and her thoughts in- 
voluntarily turned to Colonel Falconer. 

“He was kind to me once, when I needed it less than I do 
now,” she thought, “and why should I shrink from appealing 
to him this time ? It will be only a loan that I will ask. I will 
work my fingers to the bone to pay it back again.” 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


175 


So that instead of keeping straight along the high-road to the 
London railway station, which the good folks at the White 
Hart Inn had supposed to be her destination, Gratia Kempfield 
turned off into the oak-shaded lane which led in the direction 
of Melworth Hall. 

Mrs. Hopwith, the same benign-faced old housekeeper who 
had shown them over the Hall when she had visited it in com- 
pany with the Pennilon family, was in her own special little 
sanctum, and looked up as Gratia hesitatingly advanced. 

“I beg your pardon,” said Gratia, feeling hot, and tired, 
and confused, and wondering if she might venture to come 
into the cool room. “I only came up to inquire for Colonel 
Falconer. ” 

“Colonel Falconer ?” the old lady repeated, slowly. “Yes, 
yes, I remember now — the tall American gentleman, with the 
straight nose and the black eyes. What of him, child ?” 

“I would like to speak to him,” said Gratia, humbly. 

“That’s just what you can’t do !” said Mrs. Hopwith, screw- 
ing the top onto the jar she was was filling with rose leaves. 

“Why not?” 

“ Because he isn’t here. He went to London, last Thursday 
three weeks ago. Dear me !” suddenly hurrying to the door, 
“why, the child has fainted dead away !” 

It was quite true. The heat and fatigue of her walk, the 
disappointment which greeted her at its close, and the weakness 
of her physical frame, so recently raised from the bed of illness, 
was too much for Gratia Kempfield, and she lay on the thres- 
hold, looking to the good housekeeper’s troubled and pitying 
eyes like a slender white lily, broken from its stalk. 

“ Well,” cried Mrs. Hopwith, as she sprinkled the marble- 
pale brow with aromatic vinegar, and rubbed the hands of the 
prostrate girl, after she had with difficulty lifted her upon a settee 
which stood against the wall, “if she hain’tgot for all the world 
just such a face as that picture in Miss Alicia’s dressing-room, 
with the handkerchief twisted round its head— the Beatrice 


176 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


Cenci, they call it. Poor, pretty dear ! — now I wonder what 
she could have wanted to see Colonel Falconer for !” 

And when Gratia’s scattered senses came back to her, she 
found her head pillowed on a kindly arm, and a gentle hand 
bathing her forehead and temples with the sweet-smelling 
vinegar. 

“You are very kind, ” she said, in a low, tremulous voice. 
“I — I fear I have been faint. But — did I understand you to 
say that Colonel Falconer had left the Hall ?” 

“That was what I was telling you just 3s you swooned 
away,” said Mrs. Hopwith. “And if it ain’t asking more than 
I’ve any business to know, I should just like to hear what it is a 
girl like you wants of a grand gentleman like Colonel Falconer?” 

“ I used to know him in the United States,” said Gratia, 
evasively. “Gone — gone ! But I might have expected it,” she 
added, almost hysterically. “He could not care for me any 
more, after — after ” 

And she checked herself, to Mrs. Hopwith ’s sore perplexity. 

“It makes no difference,” she added, seeing the house- 
keeper’s puzzled face. “You ask what I wanted of him. I 
wanted help. I thought I might find a friend. Because I am 
quite alone and friendless in this country.” 

“But who are you?” demanded Mrs. Hopwith, more be- 
wildered than ever, “and how came you here?” 

“ My name is Gratia Kempfield,” said the girl, with slow de- 
liberation, “and I came to Cheyne Regis with a family as gov- 
erness. I fell ill, and they left me behind.” 

“And what are you going to do now?” said Mrs. Hopwith, 
becoming more and more fascinated with the magnetic shine of 
the great hazel eyes. 

“To starve, I suppose!” Gratia answered, with startling 
calmness. “ I suppose it is what people generally do who have 
neither friends nor money.” 

Good Mrs. Hopwith ’s heart melted at the look more than at 
the words. 


GRATIA S TRIALS. 


177 


“ My poor dear, you mustn’t talk that way,” she said. “ Let 
me ring for a cup of tea — I generally take it myself about this 
time of day — and you’ve no idea how much better it will make 
you feel. And then, if you don’t mind, you can tell me how it 
all happened.” 

Gratia did not dissent from this proposal ; in fact, she lacked 
energy either to say yea or nay. 

“You see,” said Mrs. Hopwith, who was a firm believer in 
the “cup that cheers but not inebriates,” “you’ll feel so much 
better after a good cup of tea, made as I make it.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

GRATIA AND THE HEIRESS. 

The good old woman was right. Our souls and bodies are 
interwoven in closer relations than we are willing to acknowledge 
to ourselves, and when one is famished the other cannot thrive. 
The cup of tea and its relishing little accompaniments refreshed 
Gratia, and Mrs. Hopwith’s openly expressed sympathy also 
wrought its soothing effect, as Gratia told the simple story of 
her experience in England. 

“Well, I never!” cried Mrs. Hopwith, setting down her 
cup. “ I did think that American woman had a face like vin- 
egar and granite when I showed her over the hall, but I didn’t 
suppose but that she had some human feelings about her. I’d 
like to give her a piece of my mind, that I would. And now 
I’ll tell you what it is, my dear. I like your looks.” 

“Thank you,” said Gratia, smiling faintly. 

“I do,” reiterated Mrs. Hopwith, “and I like your modest- 
spoken way. If you was one o’ them bold hussies as trades on 
their good looks to deceive honest folks, I would have naught 
to say to you ; but I believe you’re another sort o’ person, and 
I ain’t often deceived. You shall stay here with me until you 


178 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


get another place, and I’ll do my best to help you to one as will 
suit you.” 

“ If I could be of any use to you,” hesitated Gratia, scarcely 
daring to believe the good fortune that was dawning upon her. 

“Oh, I’ll make you useful, never fear,” said Mrs. Hopwith. 
“You can keep accounts ?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“And use the needle?” 

“ To be sure.” 

“Then you can help me with the housekeeping books, and 
the linen, and the preserve jars, and half a hundred other things, 
until so be as you find a situation to your mind.” 

So Gratia Kempfield became, for the time being, a sort of 
lieutenant to the housekeeper at Melworth Hall. 

Upon rainy days Gratia amused herself by wandering through 
the great corridors and show-rooms of the Hall. She scarcely 
ever met any one, and when she did, was never addressed ; but 
there were times when the sound of gay voices and merry 
laughter in the inhabited regions of the Hall gave her a home- 
sick sensation ; and then it seemed to her as if she would gladly 
give ten years of her life-time to be once more on the shores of 
her native land. 

About Hugo Falconer she had made up her mind. Had he 
really cared to see her he would have repeated his visit to the 
White Hart Inn at Cheyne Regis. She knew his determined 
disposition too well to believe that he would abandon any pur- 
pose that really lay near his heart, after one, or even two 
repulses. 

“ He has ceased to care for me,” she thought, with a chill 
sensation at her heart. “ I knew that, on second thoughts, he 
would shrink from me. Yet that one kind look, that cordial 
grasp of the hand — oh, they make this cruel neglect all the 
harder to bear !” 

Mrs. Hopwith had told her that she thought she could easily 
obtain for her Colonel Falconer’s address from one of the 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


179 


ladies, but Gratia told her, calmly, that she did not wish for it 
now. 

“Just as you please, my dear,” said the old lady. “ I don’t 
myself believe in young girls having too much to say to grand 
gentlemen, although far be it from me to breathe a word 
against the colonel, as has been a honored guest of Sir Hugh’s 
and my lady. And besides all that, Hendon, the butler, did 
say — though, o’ course, you and me know what servants’ gossip 
amount to — that our Miss Alicia and the colonel were great 
friends, and asked me what would I think if Miss Mel worth 
went to America to live after all.” 

Gratia was silent ; for the instant she could not have spoken. 

“You haven’t seen Miss Alicia?” said Mrs. Hopwith, 
proudly. “I must make an errand for you to Marguerite, her 
maid, some day, just to let you get a peep of her. The prettiest 
creetur you ever set eyes on.” 

“ Is she fair or dark?” Gratia asked, in a low voice, scarcely 
able to account for the sharp pang of jealousy that shot through 
her heart at Mrs. Hopwith’s words. 

“As fair as a lily, with cheeks like one o’ them big damask 
roses, and hair that shines and glitters just like sunshine.” 

So Mrs. Hopwith wandered on, and poor Gratia thought she 
never would have done, but just then she was called away by 
the butler. And the passionate fountain of tears that burst 
from her eyelids, and the burning sensation at her heart, told 
Gratia the secret she had long refused to acknowledge to her- 
self — that she loved Hugo Falconer. 

“lama fool — a mad, silly, dreaming fool,” she told herself. 
“But I can at least hide my folly in my own breast. I will 
live it down.” 

And conscious that solitude and opportunity to indulge in 
thought and memory were her worst enemies, Gratia hurried 
away to Mrs. Hopwith to beg for some employment, however 
uncongenial, wherewith to occupy her fingers and brain. 


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GRATIA S TRIALS. 


“ Can you dress hair ?” the old lady asked. 

“Yes ; why ?” 

“Praised be Providence for that!” said the old house- 
keeper, devoutly. “Marguerite, my lady’s maid, went up to 
London by the morning express, and she was to be back by 
four at the latest, and here she hasn’t come yet, and there’s a 
dinner party of five folks at seven, and no one to dress Miss 
Alicia's hair. Do you think you could undertake it?” 

“I could try,” said Gratia, smiling at the solemnity with 
which Mrs. Hopwith asked the question. “There was a 
French coiffeur used to come every day to the house where I 
lived to dress the young ladies’ hair, and I used to watch him 
work, and then afterward try the effect on my own hair.” 

“Well, that is what I call good luck,” said Mrs. Hopwith. 
“Get yourself ready, and I’ll take you up to Miss Alicia’s 
rooms at once.” 

“I am ready,” said Gratia, quietly. 

“Come then ; I suppose there’s no time to lose, as we’ll have 
to look out for some one else in case you don’t happen to suit 
my young lady.” 

Miss Hopwith led the way into Miss Alicia’s boudoir, where, 
upon a low divan, lounged the prettiest little fairy Gratia had 
ever looked upon — the self-same young beauty whose carriage 
had whirled Hugo Falconer away from her that sunny May 
afternoon. 

A full-grown woman, too, although modeled after the most 
exquisitely petite fashion — an elf-like creature, with great blue 
eyes, and scarlet lips, and a daintily grained complexion, like 
roses and snow, and a profusion of magnificent golden hair, 
which hung loose over her blue muslin wrapper. She looked 
up, a sweet, surprised look coming into her eyes, as Mrs. Hop- 
with executed an elaborate courtesy before her. 

“This is the young person, Miss Alicia, if you please.” 

Foolish Gratia ! She felt the scarlet blood tide up into her 
cheeks at the eminently respectable epithet applied to her by 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


181 


Mrs. Hopwith. Humble and untitled though she was, there 
was enough of the American spirit about her to feel that she 
was yet Miss Alicia Melworth’s equal in everything, except the 
accident of birth. 

“So you are Hopwith’s new protegee , of whom we have all 
heard so much,” said Miss Melworth, in a tone so frankly good 
humored as at once to neutralize the sting in Gratia's heart. 
“Why, you are very pretty !” 

She spoke innocently, as she might have spoken of a picture 
or a flower, or a piece of emblazoned sunset sky. 

Gratia smiled and colored, and unconsciously looked prettier 
than ever. 

“ Do you think you could do my hair?” demanded the young 
pairicienne , with pretty imperativeness. 

“Yes.” 

“That is bravely spoken !” said Miss Melworth, sitting up, 
and pointing to a low toilet-chair which Mrs. Hopwith hastened 
to bring her. “You may try it, although I warn you I am 
terribly hard to please.” 

“I am not afraid of failure,” said Gratia. “May I begin 
at once ?” 

“At once; and, Hopwith, don’t stand staring at her; you 
will make the poor thing nervous. ” 

“No, she will not,” said Gratia, as she selected a pearl-backed 
brush from the dressing-case on the table, and began skillfully 
manipulating the long, shining tresses. 

“How nicely you handle it!” said Alicia, nestling back 
against the chair. “Your hands are like velvet, and you don’t 
pull a hair the wrong way.” 

“There, Miss Melworth,” said Gratia, composedly, handing 
the young heiress a hand-glass as she completed her task ; 
“how do you like that?” 

Alicia uttered an exclamation of delighted admiration. 

“Charming ! perfect !” she exclaimed. “Marguerite herself 
never made it look half so beautiful and abundant. And you 


182 


GRATIA S TRIALS. 


were so expeditious about it, too. You are a perfect pearl of 
hair-dressers. ” 

4 ‘Only an amateur,” said Gratia, smiling. “Last month I 
was a governess, three months since a companion to a lady, 

and before that ” Here she checked herself for an instant, 

and then resumed: “And in the future, nobody knows what 
I am to be. ” 

“You shall be my maid, if you will come,” Alicia Melworth 
cried, enthusiastically. “I've been tired of Marguerite’s shuf- 
fling French ways this long time, and nothing on earth but my 
natural indolence has debarred me from making a change. Can 
you read aloud well !” 

“ I think so.” 

“Try.” 

Alicia put a volume of Tennyson's “Idyls of the King” into 
her hands, and opened the passage where the “Sweet Elaine” 
breaks her heart for love of Sir Launcelot. The deep crimson 
rose to Gratia's brow ; she was familiar with the poem, and it 
suggested an analogy to the secrets of her own heart. No 
wonder, then, that she read it with a beauty and pathos of ex- 
pression that fairly electrified Miss Melworth. 

“Splendid !” she cried. “ What an actress you would have 
made ! I couldn't endure Marguerite’s drawling accent after 
that. Now for the more practical question — can you take care 
of lace, and India shawls, and jewels, and ermine, and all that 
sort of thing ?” 

“Certainly I can.” 

“And are you very patient and much enduring? Because I 
warn you, honestly, that I’m a terrible trial to my maids.” 

“ I shall endeavor to endure you,” said Gratia, with a gravity 
that made Alicia laugh ; while Mrs. Hopwith stood looking on 
beamingly, convinced that the golden goblets of fortune had 
fallen into her young friend’s grasp. 

“And how much wages do you expect ? Marguerite calls it 
salary. ” 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


183 


“ What you think I am worth, Miss Melworth — neither more 
nor less.” 

“Twenty-five pounds a quarter? It is what I have given 
Marguerite.” 

“ I shall be more than satisfied.” 

“And you will try me ?” 

“If you will try me, Miss Melworth.” 

“ To commence?” 

“ Now.” 

“Good !” said Alicia, gravely. “You have a mind of your 
own, and I like you for that. Go into my bedroom and find 
out where things are. I shall wear a green silk dress to-night. 
It hangs in yonder mirror-fronted wardrobe.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

“SO NEAR, AND YET SO FAR !” 

Gratia Kempfield found Miss Melworth the sweetest and 
most indulgent of mistresses. The latter had at once per- 
ceived the native originality and cultivated refinement of her 
new attendant. 

“I shall make her more of a companion than a maid, 
mamma,” she said to Lady Melworth, speaking of her last 
acquisition. She is so nice, and so pretty. ” 

“Don’t spoil her, my dear, I beg,” said Lady Melworth. 
“You remind me of your youthful raptures over the .latest 
new doll.” 

“But she is a live doll ; and, oh, mamma, don’t you think 
her pretty ?” 

“I think her rarely beautiful, Alicia; but in her class of 
life, I am not sure that beauty is altogether a blessing.” 

“In her class, mamma!” repeated Miss Melworth, arching 
her golden brows, “But what is her class of life? You 


184 


on ATI AS TRIALS. 


know the Americans are so different from us ; and she has 
some delicate, dainty ways that would do no discredit to a 
duchess/' 

Meanwhile, Gratia’s life-stream seemed to roll along over 
golden sands and through green shores. And so the days 
lengthened into weeks, and the weeks into months. 

“You must make me more than ordinarily fascinating to- 
night, Gratia,” said Alicia Mel worth, entering her dressing- 
room one evening in October. “We are to have a gay party 
from London to dinner — some of Algernon’s friends. ” 

“Is your brother coming too?” Gratia asked. She had 
seen Major Melworth once or twice — a tall, dark, handsome 
man, as unlike his sprite-like little sister as it is possible 
for two human creatures to be. 

“Yes; and oh, by the way, that American gentleman is 
coming too. Don’t you remember I told you about him.” 

“Do you mean Colonel Falkland?” Gratia asked, with 
innocent hypocrisy. 

“ Falc oner,” Alicia enunciated, with great distictness. “I 
like him immensely, even if he weren’t Algernon’s especial 
friend. He is so handsome and agreeable ; I must contrive 
some way for you to see him.” 

“You must not — indeed, indeed, you must not!” ex- 
claimed Gratia, clasping her hands nervously, and letting fall 
the long golden braid she had just uncoiled from Miss Mel- 
worth’s head. “I — I have a horror of strangers — I have no 
curiosity to see him. Please, Miss Melworth, don’t.” 

“You dear little retiring thing!” said Alicia, laughing 
heartily. “ Of course I won’t, if you don’t wish it. But I 
know you would think him a perfect Apollo.” 

Gratia did not answer, but kept on unbraiding the yellow 
strands with trembling haste. 

“You are nervous to-night,” said Alicia. “ There’s enough 
of what the mesmerists call rapporle between you and me for me 
to feel it in the touch of your cold little fingers. ” 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


185 


Alicia was dressed at last, and gone down into the drawing- 
room, and Gratia, weary and listless, had crept down the side 
staircase into the room where she had stood on that eventful 
May day when Hugo Falconer had seen and spoken to her. 

Suddenly the sound of a well-known voice struck on her ear 
— the voice of Hugo Falconer. 

Why had she come thither? she asked herself. She might 
have known that he must pass that way up to his room to dress 
for dinner, yet the possibility of a meeting never had presented 
itself to her mind. Instinctively she drew back into the 
shadow, as he passed within a few feet of her, talking to Mr. 
Melworth on some passing topic. 

Within a few feet of the girl whom he had been seeking so 
urgently and persistently for months. What would Hugo Fal- 
coner have given for the chance that lay so near him now? 

“ He shall never, never know that the same roof shelters us 
both,” she murmured to herself, as she fled like a guilty person 
up the side stair-way and into the pretty little room that Alicia 
had allotted to her use, where she threw herself on the low sofa 
and wept as though her heart would break. 

Gratia was heavy-eyed and silent the next day when she came 
as usual to dress Alicia for the late Melworth Hall breakfast, 
and the latter noticed it. 

“How pale you are,” she said ; “ and I have been telling 
Algernon all sorts of stories about your pretty face.” 

Gratia was rosy enough now. 

“Miss Melworth !” 

“ Don’t look so savagely at me, Gratia !” laughed the young 
lady. “I only said you weren’t absolutely ugly, that's all. 
He is decidedly an artist in his tastes, and sketches charmingly 
from real life ; so I thought you might do as a model head for 
one of his crayons, that’s all.” 

Gratia was silent, but in her inmost mind she resolved that 
Major Algernon Melworth should never have the opportunity 


186 GRATIA' S TRIALS. 

to indulge any such artistic inclinations, so far as her face was 
concerned. 

“ We shall only have my brother with us for a few days,” 
Alicia went on. “And Colonel Falconer leaves this evening.” 

“ Does he ?” 

“To return very soon to America, I believe. / should like 
to see America, ” said Miss Melworth, with sudden enthusiasm. 

“It is the most beautiful country in the whole world,” Gra- 
tia burst forth fervently; “the fairest, best, noblest land that 
ever the sun shone on. ” 

And then she began to weep softly, the tears dropping into 
the folds of Alicia Melworth’s white alpaca dress. The young 
lady saw the effort she made to repress her emotion, and wisely 
took no notice of it. 

“Gratia,” she said, “I wish you would just run down into 
the rose-garden and ask Anderson for a pretty spray of those 
cream-white bride-roses. They are so fragrant and delicate, and 
I like to wear them in my hair at breakfast.” 

Gratia hurried away, without perceiving the kindly ruse which 
was meant to give her an opportunity to recover herself. 

“She’ll feel better when she comes back,” said Alicia to her- 
self, as she took up a novel. “Poor little thing ! She must 
be dreadfully homesick. If Colonel Falconer had a wife or a 
sister going back with him I would almost beg her to take Gra- 
tia along. I am getting very much attached to the dear little 
creature, but it seems almost as cruel as it would be to cage a 
wild bird to keep her here against her will.” 

While these thoughts were passing through Alicia Melworth’s 
gentle heart, Gratia was hurrying across the lawn, her face 
shaded by the broad brim of a gipsy hat. 

“Anderson,” she said to the gardener, “Miss Melworth 
wants a bunch of those white bride-roses.” 

“A bunch, indeed !” echoed the old man, holding up his 
hands. “An’ disna Miss Alicia ken that roses is as scarce as 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


187 


frosts in midsummer ? A bunch ! I might get her one, or 
forbye twa, but nae mair.” 

“As many as you can find, then,” said Gratia. 

Just beyond was a glass propagatory house, where Anderson 
kept a long table of young plants, ready for the next season's 
borders, and an impulse of idle curiosity induced Gratia to enter 
this building. 

As she did so, a perfume of Havana cigars blended itself 
with the aromatic odor of the moss-roses, and she saw, enter- 
ing the farther end of the walk she had just quitted, two gen- 
tlemen — Colonel Falconer and Algernon Melworth. 

Her heart throbbed quickly — a sort of mist crept over her 
eyes — but she had the presence of mind to remain perfectly 
still in her lurking-place, although Colonel Falconer almost 
brushed against the skirt of her dress as he passed the half- 
open door of the hot-house. 

“And you won’t stay for the Christmas shooting?” Major 
Melworth said, as he broke one of Anderson’s pet roses ruth- 
lessly from its stem. 

“You are most kind, Melworth,” Colnel Falconer returned, 
slowly, “but I have definitely decided to take passage in the 
Siren, that leaves on the first of November.” 

“So soon ?” 

“Yes, because — Here comes the old King of the Roses 
himself,” Hugo cried, breaking short off in his sentence. “ Mr. 

/Anderson, you have excelled yourself in autumn roses this 
season. ” 

“Ye’re pleased to say sae, sir” said Anderson, gravely. 
“But — where is Miss Alicia’s maid?” 

“Not here, assuredly,” said Melworth. “But come on, 
Falconer, to the stables, and let me have your opinion of that 
new hunter I have just invested a hundred guineas in.” 

“ Then she must hae gann een,” said the old man, wrath- 
fully. “And me been and cut the white roses. But I’ll na 


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gang after her — na, na, old Donald Anderson’s white roses ne’er 
went begging yet. ” 

He was turning away in the fullness of his indignation, when 
Gratia hurriedly glided out of the hot-house and took the 
roses from him. 

But when Gratia Kempfield came back with the roses in her 
hand, Alicia thought that she tooked paler than ever. 

“ My dear child,” she said, “your cheeks rival the bride- 
roses. Are you sure that you feel well ?” 

“ I am perfectly well, Gratia answered. “Are you read) for 
me to do your hair, Miss Melworth ?” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

HOME AGAIN. 

Colonel Falconer left Melworth Hall without ever knowing 
that the girl who had once been his adopted child, and was 
now the cherished darling of his heart, was under its ancestral 
roof. He returned to London, sad and dispirited, only to learn 
from Mr. Tessell that all the vigorously prosecuted inquiries 
had proved fruitless. 

“In fact, my dearest friend,” said Mr. Tessell, nodding his 
head conclusively, “the girl is not in London at all. If she 
had been, we should certainly have been able to lay our 
hands on her before now. We shall have to give it up, Colonel 
Falconer.” 

Hugo bit his lip. 

“I will never give it up, Mr. Tessell,” said he, resolutely. 
“Matters beyond my own personal control render it necessary 
that I should return to the United States very soon ; but when 
my uncle’s estate is settled, and business affairs are put into 
some sort of shape, I shall most assuredly return to London 
and resume the search. In the meantime, Tessell, I want 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


189 


your functionaries never once to cease their vigilance. Do you 
understand me ? The search is to go steadfastly on while I 
am gone.” 

“And if we discover a clew?” 

“Then telegraph to me at once.” 

“ As you say, colonel. And when do you leave ?” 

“Next week, on the Siren.” 

And when the Siron steamed out of Southampton, Hugo 
Falconer was on board. 

Gratia knew it. She heard Lady Melworth and her daughter 
speak lightly of what a charming day the Siren had to com- 
mence her voyage, and a stifling sensation came into her throat. 

The Christmas holidays came and went. There was the 
usual rejoicing among the tenantry of Melworth, and merry- 
making for high and low, yet to Gratia Kempfield it was all a 
mere outward show. 

One night, just after there had been a dinner-party in the 
neighborhood, to which the family of the Hall had gone, and 
as Gratia sat musing by the fire in Alicia’s dressing-room, she 
could hear the carriage drive up on its return. 

Miss Melworth came in, looking radiantly lovely in a pale- 
green silk, with a white lace scarf twisted about her pearly 
shoulders, and shining pendants of emeralds and diamonds in 
her ears. 

“Gratia, dear,” said Miss Melworth, as she came into the 
room — for the young girls had become more companions than 
anything else — “I told you not to sit up for me.” 

“It is not late,” pleaded Gratia, apologetically. 

“It is after eleven,” said Miss Melworth, glancing at her 
watch. “ But, after all, Gratia, I am not sorry that you are up 
to hear my news.” 

“What news?” asked Gratia. 

“Guess,” laughed the young heiress, letting herself sink 


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gracefully upon a low velvet couch opposite to where Gratia 
stood. 

4 4 1 cannot possibly imagine. ” 

“ I shall have to change the style of my interrogatories. How 
would you like to return to America ?" 

“What can you mean, Miss Mel worth?" breathlessly gasped 
Gratia. 

“Just what I say, my dear. Because we are all going — 
Lord and Lady Chichester, and Lord Barron, papa, Algernon, 
and I." 

“To America, Miss Melworth !” 

“Yes; why not. I declare !" cried Alicia, with a merry 
laugh ; “one would think a voyage across the Atlantic one of 
the impossibilities. We are going early next month, and you 
shall accompany us, if you choose." 

Gratia Kempfields homesick heart gave a joyous upward 
leap at the idea. It was like a glad, impossible dream to her 
— and none the less because he was there. 

“It's rather a sudden idea," went on Alicia, “but the 
Chichesters have been talking about it for some time, and when 
papa turned round to me and said, ‘ Shall we go, Alicia ?" I 
answered, ‘With all my heart, papa,’ and so it was arranged. 
Mamma does not like the idea of a sea voyage, so she is to 
remain at the Hall, with plenty of visitors to cheer her loneli- 
ness. " 

And Gratia was fully able to sympathize in Miss Melworth’s 
innocent delight. 

“Of course we shall meet Colonel Falconer again," went on 
Alicia, who was in the highest possible spirits. “ He has so 
often spoken to us about his mother and sister, and their heme 
on Fifth avenue, and his little daughter. Did I ever tell you, 
Gratia, that he was a widower, with one child ?" 

“ Only one ? ’ asked Gratia, faintly. 

“ That is all," Miss Melworth answered, and poor Gratia’s 
heart sank like a stone in her bosom. She might have known 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


191 


it — only one ; the other, the adopted daughter of his heart, had 
long since proved herself unworthy of the title, and been cast 
out of his affections. 

The next few days were passed in the pleasant excitement of 
packing, and all the numberless preparations that are incident 
to a contemplated journey. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

DRIVEN TO BAY. 

It was a bright February afternoon in New York. There 
was no snow on the ground, but the trees in Madison Park 
were all hung with a diamond fringe of icicles, which tinkled 
like myriads of tiny bells in the wind. Broadway and Fifth 
avenue were crowded with elegant equipages and superbly 
attired promenaders ; and everything looked like a gala day to 
Alicia Melworth’s enchanted eyes as she sat at the window of 
her parlor, in a marble-fronted hotel, gazing out upon the daz- 
zling scene which met her glance. 

“I declare, Gratia,” she cried, with pretty enthusiasm, “I 
don’t wonder you were homesick. This New York of yours is 
like a leaf out of a book of Eastern fairy tales ; it seems as if 
all in the city were enjoying themselves. And after that delight- 
ful drive in Central Park yesterday, I’m perfectly wild to go 
again ; but the Chichesters have got some other programme 
marked out for this afternoon, and papa and Algernon expect 
visitors, I believe. Gratia, don’t you think you and I might 
slip on our things and just go for a little walk all by our- 
selves ?” 

“ I do not see why not,” said Gratia. 

“Oh, dear, here comes somebody to frustrate our plan!” 
said Alicia, as there came a knock at the door. 

It was a waiter, with some cards for Miss Melworth. 


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“I suppose they must come in,” said Alicia, looking rather 
disconsolate. 

“At home, ma’am?” asked the waiter, evidently prepared to 
report any message they might choose to give. 

“Of course,” Miss Melworth answered. “And request Sir 
Hugh to join us at once. Don't go, Gratia — you are secluded 
enough in the recess of the window, I am sure.” 

“But I had better go,” said Gratia, nervously. 

“ Indeed you shall not,” said Alicia, with the resolute air 
she could assume at will. “Sit still — you’ve no idea as to 
whom our distinguished visitors are. Only think ” 

She stopped, with a rising color, as the door was thrown open, 
and the waiter respectfully announced : 

“Mrs. and Miss Falconer.” 

Gratia felt as if every drop of blood in her body was changed 
to globules of congealed ice. Involuntarily she shrank farther 
back behind the sheltering folds of the lace window-curtains, 
and bent as closely over her sewing as if each stitch required to 
be taken with microscopic delicacy, while the well-known voices 
of Mrs. Falconer and Alberta chatted away. After the first 
terror of their advent was over, Gratia began to hope that they 
might go away without even perceiving her. Emboldened by 
this possibility, she ventured to lift her eyes and cautiously steal 
a glance or two now and then at the ladies. 

“ We thought, perhaps,” said Alberta, winningly, “that we 
could persuade you to accompany us on a short drive up to 
the park this afternoon, Miss Melworth. The air is delight- 
fully fresh, and it is a pity not to improve the few brief hours 
of sunshine that we can steal from the short winter days.” 

“You are very kind,” said Alicia, “but we were there yes- 
terday, and I belfeve Lady Chichester has some other plans for 
this afternoon. I scarcely think she can have received your 
cards. Gratia,” turning suddenly around, “will you be so kind 
as to knock at Lady Chichester’s door and ask her to join me 
here ?” 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


193 


For an instant Gratia sat perfectly still, her heart throbbing 
tumultuously. 

Then, resolving to face whatever fate might be in store, she 
rose, and putting aside the draperies which had hitherto shielded 
her from observation, crossed the room, and passed through the 
door opposite, in full view of Alberta Falconer’s observant 
eyes. 

The instant the door closed behind her retreating figure, Miss 
Falconer threw up her hands with a gesture of horror and 
amazement. 

“ My dear Miss Melworth,” she exclaimed, in a faint voice, 
“ Do you know who that girl is ?” 

“It is my companion, Gratia Kempfield,” Alicia answered, 
with wide-open eyes of surprise; “a charming young person.” 

Mrs. and Miss Falconer exchanged looks of dismay. 

“ It cannot be possible that she had thus ventured to impose 
upon people. She would not dare!” cried the elder lady. 

“I am at a loss to comprehend you, madam,” said Alicia, 
with dignity. 

“ My dear young lady,” began Mrs. Falconer, with a tender 
air of maternal concern, “ I am sure you cannot be aware what 
a poisonous asp you are cherishing in your bosom.” 

“What can you mean, Mrs. Falconer?” demanded Alicia, 
beginning to be alarmed. 

“That girl — that Gratia Kempfield,” .began Mrs. Falconer, 
“is ” 

“A murderess /” hissed out Alberta, completing her mother’s 
sentence, in an awe-stricken whisper. 

“ It is impossible !” cried Alicia, growing very pale. 

“ It is not only possible, but it is true , as I can prove to you 
by creditable witnesses,” asserted Mrs. Falconer. “My dear, 
it makes me tremble to think to what hideous dangers you have 
been exposed. Do not keep her under your roof for another 
day, if you value your own life and the lives of those around 
you.” 


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GRATIA S TRIALS. 


“ But I cannot — I will not believe this !” said Miss Melworth, 
looking wistfully from Mrs. Falconer to Alberta. 

“You will when you hear the whole story of crime and 
rapacity,” said Alberta. “ It was my uncle whom she murdered 
— a noble, gray-haired old man, whose only fault or folly was 
that he had become infatuated with her doll-like beauty. Ask 
her yourself and see if she dares deny it.” 

As Alberta spoke the waiter knocked at the door. 

“ Lady Chichester’s compliments,” he said, obsequiously; 
“and she will be here directly.” 

“ There !” cried Mrs. Falconer, as if her tidings had con- 
firmation strong. “I knew she would not dare to return. She 
recognized us, you see.” 

“But this is all so visionary — so impossible !” cried Alicia, 
rousing herself with an effort, “ that I am sure a word or two 
of explanation must convince you of the misapprehension un- 
der which you have fallen. James” — to the waiter — “ ask Miss 
Kempfield to come to me at once.” 

Gratia was lying on her bed, with her face hidden among the 
pillows, when the message was brought to her by James. 

“Shall I go to her?” Gratia asked herself, with a sinking 
heart and a face whose pallor surprised and startled even herself, 
as she caught its chance reflection in the opposite dressing-glass. 
“ After all, why should I not? What else is there left for me 
to do ? Only, I had learned to love her so dearly, and when 
she casts me off, I shall not have a friend left in the world.” 

And so, feeling like a lost spirit who wanders by the side 
of its own grave, Gratia went down to obey Miss Melworth s 
summons. 

As she entered the room, she saw that all she most dreaded 
had come to pass. Alicia Melworth stood opposite the door, 
with a look of white, frightened terror on her lovely features, 
and Alberta Falconer was supporting her, one arm thrown 
around her waist, while Mrs. Falconer sat, stern and hard as a 
condemning judge, beyond. 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


1&5 


•‘Gratia !” exclaimed Alicia,' “speak to me. Tell me what 
all this means. Have you kept a secret from me all along ?” 

Gratia was opening her pale lips to answer, when Alberta 
Falconer anticipated her. 

“A secret — yes,” she exclaimed — “a secret of blood and 
crime ! Girl, you dare not deny that you have the crimson 
stain of my uncles blood on your hands !” 

Alicia turned shuddering away. 

“ Give me some water, or I shall faint !” she gasped. “ No ; 
don’t come near me f” as Gratia hurried to her side, and the 
look of repulsion in her eyes struck like an envenomed poniard 
to the poor girl’s heart. 

She turned aside, pale, sick, and trembling, feeling that since 
Alicia Melworth’s love and trust were taken away from her, 
there was nothing left to hope for more. 

“ May God forgive you for this day’s work !” she murmured, 
fixing eyes full of sad reproach upon Alberta’s haughty face. 
“Whatever comes of it, remember it was you that drove me to 
despair !” 

“ I beg that you will not have the audacity to dare to address 
yourself to me!” angrily exclaimed Alberta. “Mamma, ring 
the bell, and have this girl turned out of the house !” 

But Gratia had not waited for this crowning indignity. Pale 
and silent, with her hands pressed tightly over her ice-cold 
heart, she had glided out of the room. 

“ Oh, call her back ! call her back !” pleaded Alicia, through 
her tears. “ Where is she going? What will she do?” * 

But Alberta Falconer caught her hands and restrained her 
when she would have hurried to the door. 

“ Would you recall a murderess?” she uttered. 

The sunset radiance flooded Broadway like a rolling river of 
gold, as Gratia Kempfield hurried along the stately thorough- 
fare as if she were flying from some Nemesis which followed 
ever upon her track. 

Coming, at last, to where Broadway branches off westward, 


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intersected by other streets, she turned to her right hand, for 
no reason, except that the momentary current of the crowd 
seemed to carry her in that direction, and kept on, heedless 
of aching limbs, weary feet, and cold, pinched frame. The 
river — yes, Gratia smelled the salt gusts. She could hear the 
floating cakes of ice plash up and down in the turbid rush 
of the tide. The street she was traversing terminated in a 
huge, unquarried mass of rock, and just opposite Blackwell's 
Island loomed up, dark and grizzly. Gratia stood there, her 
hands uplifted, the bitter wind blowing her curls back from her 
face, in a tangled mass. 

“Why should I fear?" she said aloud, with a wild laugh. 
“The water is not colder than the hearts of the world, and 
death is better far than life ! Why should I fear ?" 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

A FIFTH AVENUE DINNER PARTY. 

Mrs. Falconer and her daughter had wisely determined to 
keep the secret of their encounter with Gratia Kempfield from 
Colonel Falconer and Ida. 

“Where would be the use of telling of it, mamma?" said 
Alberta. “ Hugo did always make such a ridiculous fuss 
about that girl — only think of his scolding us for letting her go 
away from here, after poor dear Uncle Ralph’s death 1 As 
if we could have slept peacefully in our beds with her prowling 
round like a ghost or a midnight assassin ! And he would be 
just as likely now to blame us for telling Miss Melworth the 
truth about her." 

“I don’t see but what you are right, my dear," the prudent 
mamma had answered. “And as there is no particular occa- 
sion for our making a scene, either with Hugo or Ida, we may 
as well hold our tongues. That girl seemed to have the art 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


197 


of bewitching everybody — I don’t know for my part how she 
did it ! However, we have done our duty toward Miss Mel- 
worth, and that’s one thing to be thankful for. ” 

So Mrs. Falconer and Alberta dismissed Gratia Kempfield 
from their minds as utterly as if she had never had an ex- 
istence. 

And the next thing was to issue cards for an elegant dinner- 
party in honor of Colonel Falconer’s English friends. 

The invitations were given and accepted, and the eventful 
evening arrived. Mrs. Falconer and her daughter were proudly 
conscious of looking their best. 

“Iam sorry about Robert,” said Mrs. Falconer, with a slight- 
ly perturbed look. “He has not been home these two days. 
I wish Hugo had a little more influence over him, but he seems 
to fear or care for no one, since Uncle Ralph died. Ralph 
could always manage him.” 

“Oh, mamma,” said Alberta, indifferently, “he is no worse 
than all the others in his set. I dare say Bob will settle down 
after he has sown all his wild oats.” 

The party from the Arlington Hotel arrived punctually, and 
the dinner was a very brilliant affair — no one could deny that. 
Mrs. Falconer’s heart swelled with triumph at the evident suc- 
cess of her recherche little entertainment. 

“There is no knowing what results this may lead to,” she 
told herself, as she watched the interest with which Viscount 
Barron listened to Alberta’s lively chatter, while her eldest son 
devoted himself, with a host’s courteous abandon , to the beauti- 
ful blonde heiress of Melworth. “ And after the way in which 
Bob has tried me, I'm sure I need some encouragement.” 

The party of guests were once more gathered round the draw- 
ing-room fire. Lady Chichester, who had a delicious soprano 
voice, had just approached the grand piano to sing a Scotch bal- 
lad to the accompaniment of her son, Viscount Barron, and 
Alicia was admiring the basket of shaded crimson roses which 
Ida’s careful fingers had arranged in a nest of wet moss and 


198 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


feathery ferns for the center-table, when there was a slight com- 
motion below stairs. 

Mrs. Falconer heard it, and the least possible flush flitted 
across her graciously smiling brow. She knew too well the way 
in which her youngest son was apt to come home at ten or 
eleven o’clock, after one of his lengthened carouses, but at the 
same time she had the utmost possible confidence in the dis- 
cretion of Scipio, and never turned her head. 

A piercing shriek from Alberta made her start up with a 
cheek blanched to ashen whiteness, and she beheld, borne into 
the very midst of the festive gathering, on a board, supported 
by half a dozen rough-looking men, the blood-stained body of 
Robert Falconer, with a crimson table-cloth thrown over him, 
and his pale face staring up to the ceiling. 

“I’ve surprised you, mother, haven’t I?” he said, with a 
jarring laugh. “But I’ve always suspected that it would end 
just in this way some day. I’m sorry to spoil sport, but they 
would bring me here. Don’t touch me, Hugo,” as his elder 
brother approached him with a grave, stern face; “the life is 
dropping, in big clots, out of me, and I don’t know what any 
one would gain by trying to check it now. They told me, at 
the first, it was a fatal wound ; but I shan’t peach on the fellow 
who did it. «It was in one of those gambling-house frays, and 
I don’t think he meant to strike so hard. Lay me down some- 
where, you blockheads !” to the men, who were looking vaguely 
at the splendors that surrounded them. “What are you staring 
at ? And, mother, you come close to me ; you’ve always been 
good to your wild boy. I don’t say but that it serves me right, 
but it’s rather hard on you. What’s the use of that ?” as a 
physician — the very Dr. Hayley who had been summoned so 
suddenly to the house the morning when Mr. Ralph Miller 
had been found dead in his room — entered the apartment, with 
a case of surgical instruments in his hand. “Nobody can 
help me now, and I won’t be tortured. Just a swallow of 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


199 


brandy, Hugo — there’s a deadly feeling round my heart — that’s 
all I need.” 

As Colonel Falconer held a glass of brandy to his brother’s 
pallid lips, Dr. Hayley stooped to examine the wound as well 
as he could. It was but a brief ceremonial ; and then, straight- 
ening himself up again, he slightly nodded his head in answer 
to Hugo’s inquiring look. 

“ He speaks but too truly,” he said, in a low tone. “Your 
brother, sir, has received his death-wound. He may live two 
hours, perhaps — certainly not longer.” 

“Two hours!” echoed Robert, whose ears, preternaturally 
sharpened, had caught the words that were never intended for 
them. “ Is that all ? Well, two hours are long enough for a 
man to live who feels as if a stream of red-hot coals were pour- 
ing through his chest. More brandy, Hugo — more ! I’ve some- 
thing to tell you before I shut the world’s gates behind me, and 
the strength is all going out of my tongue.” 

By this time the .brilliantly lighted drawing-room was nearly 
empty. With that delicate good breeding which is a species of 
instinct, the guests had, one by one, withdrawn. 

Mrs. Falconer bent over her son, with a very pale face and 
hands tightly clasped together, and Hugo supported his head 
as he lay on the sofa, while Alberta was weeping hysterically, 
entirely heedless of the gory stains of blood which had be- 
smeared her costly dress. Ida stood, very pale, beside her 
aunt, and the door-way was blocked by the heads of the curious 
servants. 

As the wretched young man gulped down the fiery liquid 
which Hugo gave him, a new strength seemed to gush into 
his veins. 

“It’s, a sorry lookout,” he said, with a husky attempt at a 
laugh. “I never expected it to come quite so soon; but 
before I die, I must get one thing off my mind. I couldn’t 
sleep quietly in my grave if it lay, like a black weight, on my 
conscience. I am no coward, he added, slowly. I have 


200 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


lived like a man, and I’ll die like one ; but she — she mustn’t 
carry the blame and the burden any longer.” 

“Of whom are you speaking, Robert?” his mother asked, 
tremulously. 

“Gratia — little Gratia Kempfield. She is as innocent as a 
lamb. It was / that killed Ralph Miller.” 

“Robert ! my son ! Robert !” 

His mother’s voice rose in a shrill scream, and Alberta’s head 
sank on the arm of the chair she sat in. 

“It was I that killed my Uncle Ralph !” deliberately reiter- 
ated Robert Falconer ; “and I’ll tell you how it was, if this 
tightening at my throat will let me. I’ve carried the awful 
secret in my heart too long already ; it has dragged me down 
to hell, and made me the miserable wretch that I am. I came 
down that night, after Gratia had left my uncle — came softly 
down, in my slippered feet, and appealed to him for money to 
release me from the bondage of intolerable debt — disgraceful, 
dishonorable debt ! I might have known better ; but I think 
I was a little mad that night. I had been drinking up in my 
own room until — God help me ! — I had neither sense nor 
reason left. Of course, he refused. He was right enough in 
that ; but he, too, lost his temper, and threatened to betray me 
to the world. In a moment of uncontrollable rage I stabbed 
him to the heart with the pocket-poniard I had gotten into the 
way of carrying about with me. I didn’t mean it. It was some 
fiend entering into me for the moment. The next instant I 
would have given all my hopes in this world and the next to 
recall that blow ; but it was too late — he was dead. Then came 
all that mummery of the inquest. Nobody suspected me, and 
I knew they would not. That tray of china on the stairs was 
what saved me ; yet all the string of evidence about the tray of 
china was not worth a straw. My mother’s dressing-room door 
stood a little ajar. I did not know but that, late as it was, she 
might still be moving about ; and so, to avoid passing through 
the strip of light that shone out across the hall, I swung myself 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


201 


lightly over the banisters, like a gymnast, and so back again 
when I returned, leaving that awful thing in the library. I did 
not even know of the existence of the tray of china, although 
had I gone down or come up like any one else, I must have 
knocked it over, and made noise enough to rouse the Seven 
Sleepers ; and when the next day it was gravely put forward as 
a reason why I could not possibly have had anything to do with 
the matter, I smiled grimly to myself to see how neatly my 
friend and ally, Satan, had shielded his own. More than this — 
I haven't told the worst of it — Gratia Kempfield had resented 
my attentions ; she had scorned me openly not a month before, 
and I had vowed to myself to be revenged on her ; so I let the 
shadow of suspicion fall on her , not only to protect myself, but 
to carry out the vengeance I had sworn. But a dying man sees 

things differently, and if ever she will forgive me " He 

paused a moment, and then went on, with a choking spasm in 
his voice : “I mayn’t know it, but — but ” 

The blood gushed from his mouth with these words, the 
last he ever spoke, although he lived in an unconscious state 
until daybreak. 

When Hugo Falconer came out from the chamber in which 
lay the corpse of his brother, he looked his mother sternly in 
the face. In the dreary hours of that night-watch she had con- 
fessed to him the entire story of the systematic persecution to 
which she and Alberta had subjected Gratia Kempfield. She 
had told him, to his boundless surprise, of the meeting, only a 
few days previous, at the Arlington Hotel, in Miss Melworth’s 
presence. He had listened in silence, but with a terrible light- 
ning of anger in his eyes. He literally dared not speak, lest he 
should say too much to the woman who, whatever might be 
the heinousness of her faults, was yet his mother. 

He knew all, and that was sufficient. And when the erring 
spirit of his brother had passed into the presence of Him who 
is^ll-Merciful, Hugo came to his mother, and said : 


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“ The next thing, mother — the first and the only thing is to 
find Gratia. Where is she ?” 

Mrs. Falconer burst into a weak tempest of sobs and tears. 

“For, unless, we find her, and that speedily,” Colonel Fal- 
coner went on, in a low, impressive voice, “her blocd will 
surely be upon the hands of you and yours.” 

“Hugo, don’t speak so,” wailed Mrs. Falconer. I never 
meant it !” 

“What you meant or did not mean, matters little now,” he 
said, speaking in his strong self-restraint. “The question is — 
where is she ?” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE SISTERHOOD OF ST. HILDEGARDE. 

But Colonel Falconer, determined though he was to sift this 
mystery to its very foundations, found himself unable to secure 
any degree of success. For the very next day, even while 
Robert Falconer’s corpse lay in its coffin, Ida was stricken down 
with one of the most malignant forms of typhoid, fever, and 
Alberta became the next victim, even while she stood at her lit- 
tle niece’s bedside.' When, or how, they could possibly have 
contracted the seeds of contagion nobody could imagine, but 
there they lay, fever- flushed and delirious, side by side, while 
the disease seemed to gain momentarily upon their besieged 
systems. 

The neighbors shrank within themselves ; a sort of conviction 
seemed to have seized upon them that the Falconers were an un- 
lucky family. Acquaintances and friends shunned the possi- 
bility of infection. The very servants packed up their few be- 
longings, and crept stealthily away, without stopping even to 
demand their wages, and Colonel Falconer and his mother 
found themselves left entirely alone, in this hour of their gre&t- 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


203 


est emergency, with the single exception of the faithful old col- 
ored man, Scipio. 

The doctor looked gravely down at his patients. 

“ I will not say that I do not consider them very ill,” he said 
to Mrs. Falconer, “because that would be misrepresenting 
matters, but in. this disease almost as much depends upon good 
nursing as on medical prescription. A doctor’s drugs can do no 
good if they are not regularly administered, and nature must be 
aided in every possible way. It is of the very first importance 
that you secure a good nurse at once — two if posssible.” 

“But where shall I get them ?” Mrs. Falconer asked, despair- 
ingly. “People will not come near me. My servants have all 
fled away, except old Scipio, as if we had the plague in the 
house.” 

The doctor looked a little puzzled. 

“There is reason in my mother’s question,” said Colonel 
Falconer, with a sad smile. 

“You are right,” said the doctor. “There is a good deal 
of this fever about just at present, and good nurses, always 
scarce enough, are in the greatest possible demand. But I’ll 
tell you where I think you could obtain one, if they are obtain- 
able anywhere, and that is at the Sisterhood of St. Hildegarde.” 

“Sisters of Charity?” 

“ Something of that sort, and yet not exactly that — a com- 
munity of noble Protestant women who devote their lives to go- 
ing about and doing good. Go there and try your luck. Say 
I sent you, if you please; I have appealed' successfully to them 
more than once.” 

He penciled the address on one of his professional cards, and 
handed, it to Colonel Falconer. 

“Go at once,” he said. “There is not an instant’s time to 
lose. ” 

And Hugo Falconer obeyed. 

A serene-faced old lady came to him, in response to his re- 
quest to see the lady in charge. She heard his story with sym- 


204 GRATIA' S TRIALS. 

pathetic interest, and turned her eye-glasses thoughtfully round 
and round in her hand, as she meditated upon it. 

“ It is very unfortunate,” said she, at last, “but our nurses 
are all at work in different places, except Sister Leonora, and 
she is too ill to go out. Yes, it is a great pity — we should like 
to do something to oblige Dr. Hayley, who has been very good 
to us in times of necessity. But you see just how it is. Stay, 
though,” she held up one plump, dimpled little hand as her 
visitant was turning despairingly away, “there’s a young person 
here — she is not exactly one of the sisterhood, but ” 

“Oh, that would make no difference,” said Colonel Fal- 
coner, clutching, as it were, at the straw of hope held out to 
him. 

“But,” went on Sister Agnes, mildly, “I think she would 
make a good nurse, and she is willing to do and dare anything 
in the service of her Master. I will send her at once. ” 

“Cannot I take her with me, madam?” Colonel Falconer 
ventured to suggest. “My carriage is at the door, andjiaste 
is of the most vital importance.” 

“I must see and speak to her first,” Sister Agnes said. 
“ But if you choose to wait for a few minutes-- ” 

Hugo did wait ; but it was of no avail. Sister Agnes came 
back presently. 

“She will come soon,” she said. “I thought she would be 
glad of an opportunity to work. But she cannot accompany 
you.” 

And so, much against his will, Colonel Falconer drove home 
alone. 

“You are to send the new nurse up at once, when she 
comes, Scipio,” he said, as he crossed the hall floor to the 
library. 

The new nurse arrived shortly afterward, closely vailed, and 
dressed in the simple yet not ungraceful garments of the sister- 
hood of St. Hildegarde. Scipio reverently marshaled her up 
stairs, and went to tell his master of the new arrival. 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


205 


“ I will go to her at one e,” said Colonel Falconer, rising. 

As he entered the sick-room, where the darkened blinds and 
the faint odor of disinfectants too plainly proclaimed the pres- 
ence of disease, a slight figure stood opposite to him, looking 
all the slighter from the black dress she wore. Her bacK was 
toward him as he entered, but she turned, almost at the same 
instant, and he found himself standing face to face with Gratia 
Kempfield. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE DARK IS MADE LIGHT. 

It is only necessary for us to go back a few days to the frosty 
February twilight in which Gratia Kempfield fled so wildly from 
what seemed to her the avenging Nemesis of some hideous 
fatality. The sullen roar of the ice-freighted East River seemed 
to her like a friendly, inviting voice ; the chill rush of the blast 
a hand laid kindly on hers, drawing her toward the misty con- 
fines of the great unseen. 

For an instant she sank rather than knelt on the ice-glazed 
surface of a huge rock which had rolled to the very edge of the 
tides, with a dim idea of murmuring some prayer, and uttered 
aloud the sweet, familiar words : 

“ ‘Our Father which art in heaven.’” 

Before she could speak the next phrase of her childhood’s 
prayer, a soft, warm hand fell on hers. She started with a low 
cry, and saw, standing close beside her, a woman dressed in the 
peculiar black robes of the Sisterhood of St. Hildegarde. 

“What is it, my poor child?” Sister Madeline asked, kindly. 
“Is it sin, or sorrow? Know that neither is beyond the help 
and pardon of the Father whose name you have just spoken.” 

Gratia tried to break away from the mild, detaining grasp. 

“Let me go!” she cried ; “let me die! Only one brief 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


206 

plunge into those cold waves, and the restless fever will be 
done forever ! Oh, let me go — it is no kindness to hold me 

back r 

But Sister Madeline put her arms resolutely about the strug- 
gling young girl. 

“Nay,” she said; “lam a woman like yourself. I, too, 
have lived and suffered, but it is all past. Come with me.” 

“Where?” 

“To a place where no one shall question or doubt you — to 
a home for the homeless, a refuge for those who have no hope 
left. I do not know what has driven you to this extremity, 
but if guilt ” 

“Oh, it is not that !” Gratia answered, sobbing softly on the 
kind black-draped shoulder. “Iam innocent — indeed, I am 
innocent. I have tried to do my best, but it is of no avail ; 
the whole world is leagued against me, and it were better far 
that I should die !” 

“You are not the first one who has said and thought so,” 
said Sister Madeline, greatly encouraged by the girl’s simple 
words; “and yet you, too, will learn in time how kindly the 
Father cares for us all. Come.” 

“ But I do not know yet where you are taking me to.” 

“Iam going to St Hildegarde’s Home, where I live.” 

“ How did you come here?” 

The sister pointed to a knot of rude shanties at no great dis- 
tance, clinging, as it would appear, like lichens to the rock. 

“ Do you see that little cabin to the right, with the stove- 
pipe chimney coming out of it?” she said. “There is death 
there. I have visited the house every day, but I shall visit 
it no more. Death has come at last As I came out I 
saw you crouching by the river-side, and I hurried toward you, 
lest I should be too late.” 

Gratia resisted no longer, but rose and followed Sister Mad- 
eline, as she would have unquestioningly followed the beck- 


OB ATI AS TRIALS. 


207 


oning hand of a guardian an 0 el. Sister Madeline had come, 
truly, just in time to save the perishing soul. 

In the Sisterhood of St. Hildegarde they found her sufficient 
employment to make her feel herself no burden on them, and 
she was fast regaining, not only physical strength, but a healthy, 
cheerful tone of mental elasticity, under the kindly guardian- 
ship of the sisters, when this unexpected call happened to press 
her into the ranks of active service. She had started and col- 
ored when Sister Agnes told her where she was to go, but she 
had not shrunk. 

“All places and people are alike to me now,” she had told 
herself, even while the blood rushed with wild, uneven pulses 
through her veins at the idea of seeing Hugo Falconer. “Yes, 
Sister Agnes, I will gladly go.” 

And although the glad surprise in Colonel Falconer’s face, as 
he looked upon her, was like the very breath of life itself to her 
hungering heart, she controlled herself by a determined effort, 
and held up a warning finger. 

“Gratia!” he cried. “Oh, Gratia, my lost darling! my 
recovered treasure !” 

“Hush!” she answered, resolutely. “I am not here as 
Gratia. I am here as the nurse sent by Sister Agnes.” 

“But you will let me tell you ” 

“I will let you tell me nothing until I have wrought the 
work that I came here to do.” 

And so he left her, wondering in what school the slight, deli- 
cate young girl had learned the lesson of that dignity and s^lf- 
command, whose influence he himself could not but feel. 

But after the long weeks of weary watching, when at last Al- 
berta was sitting up, and Ida, strong, sought to recognize and 
speak to those around her, Gratia ran down into Colonel Fal- 
coner’s presence, one day, shawled and vailed. 

“You are not going, Gratia,” he exclaimed, starting up from 
his seat at the library table. 


208 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


“ My mission is accomplished,” she answered, quietly. “ Yes, 
I am going.” 

“But you are not ,” he retorted, drawing her to a seat. “ I 
have much to tell you first. Our lips have all been sealed up 
to this moment, because anything like excitement in the sick- 
room has been strictly forbidden, and you have been too reso- 
lutely faithful a nurse to afford us any other opportunity.” 

And he told her all that had transpired since that day she had 
fled from the hotel. 

Gratia listened in silence, her large, lovely eyes fixed on the 
narrator’s face, while the faint crimson came and went, fitfully, 
upon her cheek. 

“ I knew it must one day be so,” she said, in a low, tremu- 
lous tone. “ I knew God was too just always to let the dark 
shadow rest upon my life. But, oh ! I thought the time would 
never come !” 

“ Gratia, do you suppose that I ever, for an instant, believed 
you to be guilty ?” 

“ I do not know, Colonel Falconer. What else could I sup- 
pose ?” 

“I would have staked my life on your innocence, dearest. 
Nor is this all I have to tell you, Gratia. Do you remember 
the day I saw you standing beside the azaleas at Mel worth 
Hall?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I have loved you ever since. I have treasured your 
dear image in my heart. You cannot go and leave me now, 
Gratia. I want to keep you always by my side — as my darling, 
cherished wife !” 

And that was Hugo Falconer’s wooing ! 

Mrs. Falconer, whose views on many subjects had been 
changed since the violent death of her youngest and favorite 
son, received the tidings of Hugo’s engagement more graciously 
than he had imagined she would. 

“She is very lovely to be sure,” the matron admitted. “I 


GRATIA’ 8 TRIALS. 


209 


never saw any one grow and change so in so short a time ; and 
she has certainly been a great blessing to us all during this 
fever; but I did hope, Hugo, that you would admire Miss 
Melworth.” 

“So I do,” her son answered, smiling brightly, “and all the 
more because she was kind to Gratia. But I never could love 
her, even if my heart were not already given to another.” 

Alberta was genuinely angry, but her indignation was of no 
avail. Gratia Kempfield was unmistakably queen of the situa- 
tion — engaged to be married to her brother, and the darling 
of little Ida’s affectionate heaft. Alicia Melworth, who had just 
returned to New York, after a lengthened tour through the 
United States, came at once to congratulate them. 

“ I always knew you must have a story, you dark-eyed little 
wild flower,” she said, “because you looked exactly like the 
heroine ©f a novel. But why didn’t you take me into your 
confidence ? However, I’ll forgive you if you’ll have a splendid 
wedding before I go away, with six bride-maids, of whom I am 
to be the chiefest. ” 

“ I would rather be married quietly,” pleaded Gratia. 

“But you see you can’t be,” nodded Alicia, with all her old 
gracious willfulness. “Alberta and I shall manage that for 
ourselves.” 

“ It is not yet three months since poor Robert died,” said 
Gratia, resolutely. “If I am to be married at all, I shall wait 
until the year is up.” 

“ And then I shall not be here,” said Alicia. “Oh, Gratia, 
can you not persuade Colonel Falconer to let you be married 
from Melworth Hall ? There is no one who loves you half as 
well as I do, and it would be so charming.” 

But Gratia persisted in her own way this time, and Alicia was 
forced to abandon the cause. 

“Well, then, if I am not to be here at the eventful cere- 
mony,” said she, “I shall give you my present now, Gratia— 


210 


OR ATI AS TRIALS. 


the set of pearls you have clasped so often on my neck and 
wrists. ” 

She laid the blue velvet case in Gratia’s lap, with the great 
gleaming pearls lying coiled up within, like links of frozen 
tears. 

“ Of course I could bring a newer and more stylish set here/’ 
she said, “but these are the Melworth pearls, with a history 
attached to each gem, and I thought you would like them bet- 
ter because I had worn them. ” 

And the light in Gratia’s soft, uplifted eyes told her that she 
was right. 

The presents were showered in abundantly as the time of the 
wedding drew near, for Colonel Falconer was a personage of 
too much importance in metropolitan society for any neglect to 
be shown to the girl whom he had chosen to be his wife. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“ MARRIED AT GRACE CHURCH.” 

The Widow Kempfield, formerly our old friend Miss Almira 
Bassett, was in New York making a short visit to her friend, 
Mrs. Keturah Peabody, who kept a millinery store on Eighth 
avenue. 

“There’s nothing particular for me to do, now that I’ve let 
the farm on shares/’ said Mrs. Kempfield, with whom it might 
be supposed that sorrow agreed, she looked so fat and oily and 
blooming in her rustling black gown and widow’s cap. “Poor, 
dear Ira has left me everything he had in the world, and I don’t 
need to trouble myself pecuniarily.” 

“To be sure, ’’said Mrs. Peabody, whose own better half had 
died without leaving anything, because of the simple fact that 
he had nothing to leave. “And now you’re here, Almira, you 
can lend me a hand with Rebecca’s wedding things.” 


GRATIA’ S TRIALS. 


211 


“So she's to be married at last,” said the widow, a little 
acidly — she would rather have indulged herself in elegant leisure 
while “sponging,” as it were, her bread out of poor Mrs. Pea- 
body. “Well, it’s time.” 

“Yes.” said Mrs. Peabody, proudly, “she’s to be married 
next month. Julius Disoway’s got a situation in an insurance 
office, and he's taken a floor through on East Forty-fourth 
street, and furnished it elegant. Would you like to go up and 
see it this afternoon ?” 

“Well, I don’t mind,” said Mrs. Kempfield, indifferently. 
“It’s 'most a pity to stay indoors such a glorious spring day.” 

“ Besides,” said Mrs. Peabody, glancing at the clock on the 
mantel, “I kind o’ want to stop in and take a peep at a big 
wedding to be at Grace Church, at three, o’clock, and we shall 
have time enough if we step lively.” 

“A wedding, eh ?” said Mrs. Kempfield, who had sufficient 
of the womanly instinct about her to take an interest in all that 
appertained to the hymeneal altar. “Whose wedding?” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Peabody, “I heard about it from Alice 
Hawkes, who used to trim for me, before she got uppish and 
went to work for Madame Grandillotte. Madame Grandillotte 
furnishes the hats for the bridegroom’s family, and a fat job she’s 
made of it. I don’t doubt,” Mrs. Peabody added, curiously, 
“that rich folks will pay any price. It’s Colonel Falconer, one 
of those rich Fifth avenue Falconers, and the young lady, they 
do say, is the most beautiful creetur the sun ever shone on !” 

“In that case,” said Mrs. Kempfield, “ I’d like to see her.” 

“And although, of course, my Rebecca’s to be married in a 
plain way at home, yet I never lose a chance of getting an idea. 
If you can’t use it yourself, it comes handy in trade. It’s to 
be a full-dress wedding — the dress and all brought straight from 
Paris.” 

“ What’s the bride’s name?” asked Mrs. Kempfield. 

“ I don’t know — some odd-sounding name like it was took 


212 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


out of a novel. They say the fashionables hain’t talked o' 
nothin’ else for a month.” 

“They can’t have much to talk about then,” said Mrs. 
Kempfield, with acerbity. 

“ It’s just in our way,” said Mrs. Peabody ; “and, as they 
say a cat may look on a king, I guess there won't be no diffi- 
culty about our squeezin’ in, though I did hear as any one must 
present a card to the usher before they could be let in.” 

“ Fiddle !” said Mrs. Kempfield. “I’d like to see any usher 
that could keep me out !” 

And, duly attired in the splendors of their choicest ward- 
robes, the two widows and the bride-expectant started forth on 
their walk, Mrs. Kempfield little dreaming whose wedding she 
was about to witness. 

It was a bright morning in early spring, and the street in 
front of Grace Church was blocked in with carriages. 

“My! what a squeeze!” said Mrs. Peabody. “I’m afeard 
we’re late, Almiry.” 

“I’ll get in, or I’ll know the reason why !” uttered Mrs. 
Kempfield, between her set teeth, as she pushed herself in 
front of an elegantly dressed lady. 

The usher at the door looked in vain for the requisite 
square of pasteboard. 

“ Your card, ma’am, please,” he said. 

“I’ve left it to home,” said Mrs. Kempfield, confidently 
pushing past ; and the usher could but submit. 

“Well, I never!” uttered Mrs. Kempfield, audibly, as she 
crowded her portly form into one of the reserved seats beyond 
the mystic silken cord, and beckoned Mrs. Peabody and Re- 
becca to follow. 

One of the officials, shocked and scandalized, was about 
to interfere, but the usher, who now came up the middle 
aisle, beckoned him to desist. 

“It’s some rich old relation, who has money to leave, I 


GRATIA' S TRIALS. 


213 


dare say,” he whispered. “Nobody else would dare to act 
so. Let ’em alone — we don’t want a scene in the church.” 

While Mrs. Kempfield was yet staring round her/ there was 
a sudden silence, then an instantaneous turning of heads, 
and the next moment the wedding march of Mendelssohn 
rolled out its tumult of rich chords upon the scented air, as 
the bridal party slowly advanced up the grand aisle. 

First the four ushers, then six bride-maids, floating clouds 
of snowy silks and tulle, with the groomsmen, whose regu- 
lation black garments seemed only designed to act as foils, 
next the bride and groom. 

“I can’t see her! Plague take that big knot of feathers in 
front !” cried Almira, in a stage whisper. “ Move your head, 
ma’am, can’t you,” with a poke of her parasol-end at Mrs. 
Reginal Chevis, of Madison avenue, who occupied the obnox- 
ious position. 

That astonished lady drew herself slightly to one side ; but 
too late ; and it was not until the marriage ceremony was over 
that Mrs. Kempfield had a satisfactory glance. Her eyes, slowly 
traveling up the bride’s figure, and mentally estimating the 
value of everything she had on. as she glided gracefully down 
the aisle upon her husband’s arm, had at length reached her 
face. 

“Why !” she exclaimed, drawing a quick, short breath that 
was like a cry ; “ it’s Gratia !” 

“Gratia !” echoed Mrs. Peabody, in surprise. 

“ My step-daughter, Gratia, that ran away from home ! It’s 
she, herself, and no other ! Well, well ! wonders will never 
cease. And she is the bride that half New York is talking 
about— that is married to the rich Fifth avenue gentleman ! My 
stars alive ! I wish, now ” 

But she stopped here. Wishes were of no particular avail at 
this stage of affairs as she was wise enough to know. 

When at last they contrived to make their way out, crushed 
and jostled in the soft, aristocratic tumult of the crowd in which 


GRATIA' 8 TRIALS. 


214 

» 

they felt like denizens of some ether and humbler world, the 
carriages were thundering away down Eleventh street ; the wed- 
ding was over. 

And Mrs. Kempfield had had the very questionable satisfac- 
tion of seeing the brilliant marriage of the step-daughter whom 
she had so openly hated and contemned. 

Verily, Gratia had striven “against wind and tide;” but she 
had conquered at last. 

[the end.] 


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In. Handsome Paper Covers, 25 Cents. 


STRANGE SCENES IN THE GREAT CITY. ' 


BRUCE ANGELO, 


CITY DETECTIVE. 



By “OLD SLEUTH,” 


Author of “Brant Adams,” “The New York Detective,” “Van, the 
Government Detective,” etc. 


A well managed and extremely captivating plot connects the ani- 
mated and thrilling incidents which crowd every chapter in this 
eventful story. 

Uniform in size with the other novels of the Secret Service 
Series. 


PRICE, TWENTY-FIVE CENTS. 


For sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or will be sent, 
postage free, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt 
of price, by the publishers, 


STREET & SMITH, 


P, Q. Box 2734. 


31 Rose St., New York. 


SECRET SERVICE SERIES, 

By “OLD SLEUTH,” and others. 


In Handsome Paper Covers, J25 Cents. 


1 DETECTIVE STORY OF ENTRANCING INTEREST. 

The Government Detective; 

OR, 

THE BASE METAL COINERS. 

By tlie Author of “Old Sleuth.” 


So engrossed is the reader of this graphically told story that he 
imagines himself in the company of the brave Detective, an actual 
witness of the exciting and vivid scenes so dramatically presented. 

Uniform in size with the other novels of the Secret Service 
Series. 

PRICE, TWENTY-FIVE CENTS. 

For sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or will be sent, 
postage free, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt 
of price, by the publishers, 

STREET SMITH, 

P. 0. Box 2734. 31 Rose St., New York. 




$ 50 , 147 . 00 ! 


This large sum repre- 
dents the cost of the 
reading matter and il- 
lustrations that ap- 
peared during the past 
year in Street & Smith’s 
New York Weekly, the 
best Story and Sketch 
Paper in the world. 

For sale by all Book- 
sellers and Newsdeal- 
ers. S3. 00 a year by 
mail . 

STREET & SMITH, 

31 Rose St . , 

New York. 


@ ° ° 

Street & Smith’s Select Series 

OF 

POPULAR AMERICAN COPYRIGHT STORIES, 

BY POPULAR AUTHORS. 


Handsome Paper Covers, 26 Cents, 


The following Books are now ready : 

No. 1— THE SENATOR’S BRIDE. 

By Mbs. ALEX. McVEIGH MTTiTiF.lt 


No. 2 — A WEDDED WIDOW j or, The Love that Lived. 

By T. W. HANSHEW. 


No. 3— VELLA VEBNELL; or, An Amazing Marriage. 

By Mbs. SUMNEB HAYDEN, 

Author of “LrrriiK Goldie.” 


No. 4 — (Double Number). 

BONNY JEAN and A SEVERE THREAT. 

By Mbs. E. BURKE CQLLINS, 


No. 5— BRUNETTE AND BLONDE; Or, The Struggle for a Birthright. 

By Mbs. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER, 


Author of “The Senator’s Bride,” “A Dreadful Temptation,” “The Bbede 

the Tomb,” etc. 


No. e-A STORMY WEDDING. 

By Mbs. MARY E. BRYAN, 

Author of 4 , Manch,” “Ruth, the Outcast,” “Bonny and Blue,” etc. 


PRICE, TWENTY -FIVE CENTS. 


Issued in clean, large type, with handsome lithographed cover, and for sale 
all Booksellers and Newsdealers, or sent, postage free , to any address, on recei 
of price, by the publishers, 


STREET SMITH, 

• 81 Rose St., New 



P. 0. Box 2784, 













































RUW t 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


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